


In Through the Out Door

by Yasminke



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Explicit Language, Gen, post-3.22
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-31
Updated: 2012-08-25
Packaged: 2017-11-02 19:30:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 46,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/372564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yasminke/pseuds/Yasminke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Dean is dragged into Hell, Sam's visions return, except now they are interlaced with graphic details of Dean's torture. To escape them and find a way to bring Dean back, Sam criss-crosses the country killing the creatures in his visions and dulling the pain however he can.</p><p>Meanwhile, five strangers have been guided to the small, rapidly shrinking town of Rages, South Dakota. A spike in demonic activity convinces Bobby to send Sam to Rages, even though that's not where his visions say he should go. The new locals decide to join forces with a very reluctant, often confused Sam. It's their adopted town after all.</p><p>In the midst of this, a faction of Hell approaches Sam with an offer. If Sam agrees (and succeeds), he'll get Dean back and forestall the Apocalypse. But at what price?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> Long disclaimer: This story is AU set just after season 3. That bit's important. The characters other than those seen in season 3 — be they human or supernatural — are my own creation. Therefore, Hell, demons and angels are my own (warped) reworking of stories from the Jewish lore and Kabbalah. Any resemblances to SPN's demons/angels in seasons 4-7 (and beyond) are because great minds think alike. Differences are obvious: I'm a very warped individual.
> 
> Oh, yeah, and: this is a piece of original yet transformative material. I don't own anything but a lot of debt, so if you want to sue, good luck.

September 19, 2007

Sara closed the Nora Roberts novel she'd borrowed from the night nurse, Marion, placing it face down on her lap. The staff had told her that reading, no matter what the subject, would soothe him and keep him connected to the world. Wearily, she leaned back in the chair and stared at the monitors surrounding her fiancé.

The week before the Jewish New Year they had been shopping, gleefully putting the finishing touches on the plans for their upcoming wedding. So many arrangements to make, let alone the important divvying up of honors. Which of their brothers would carry the ring?  Who was going to hold the canopy? Which would give the toast? Who would they seat next to Uncle Ira?

The next night, while Sara waited for Ronny to come home after his shift at the clinic, she received a phone call: Ronny had collapsed and was in the hospital in a coma. No one knew what had happened, or how, since he had had a check-up less than three months earlier and had been declared the picture of health. 

"Hey, honey," her mother said as she entered into the room. "Morning, Ronny dear," she chirped just before planting a kiss on Sara's head. "Any change today?"

"No, Momma. Nothing."

Sara's mother fiddled with the flowers, picking off dead blooms from the numerous bouquets around the room.  She looked down at the book. "Nora Roberts? A little beneath your normal standard, isn't it?"

"The night nurse lent it to me. I finished the Kathy Reichs one Ronny'd started, so she gave me hers."

"You've eaten?  You have to keep up your strength—"

Sara chuckled. "Yes, Momma. I ate. And had some coffee. I'm fine."

The door opened and a middle-aged doctor entered the room, his lab coat immaculately pressed and dirt defyingly bright. He attempted a smile at both women — the attempt looking like he'd had oral surgery earlier in the morning and the novocaine had yet to wear off — before he went over to Ronny's chart, lifted it, then inspected the monitors, each in turn. He looked back at the women and smiled awkwardly again.

"You're to be married soon, is that not correct?" he asked.

"Yes," Sara answered. "In October, if—"

"When," Sara's mother interrupted. "When Ronny gets better."

The doctor glanced knowingly at Sara, his piercing, pale blue eyes boring holes into her. He nodded once, then pointed to the book in her lap. "When this is over, you should get away. Some place scenic like on that cover.”

~*~

November 20, 2007

Rick looked up from his grill in time to see Tammy close the dishwasher with a snap. He gave her a nod and jerked his head toward the back door. Tammy grabbed her down jacket and followed him outside for their end-of-shift ritual.

Rick shook a cigarette out of the packet and watched as Tammy's still chubby fingers pulled it from the pack. He remembered how everyone used to tease her about her hands when they were in elementary school. Until she beat Jimmy Weston with her chubby little fists. Jimmy, who died just last week after being hit by a bolt of lightning. "Some weather, huh?" he mused as the lighter lit both cigarettes.

"Yeah," Tammy agreed, blowing out her first puff. "Kinda hard to decide what to wear. Hey, what're you and Sheila doin' for Thanksgiving?"

"Eatin' turkey, watchin' the parade and games. You guys?"

"Pretty much the same. Folks and us were heading over to Sioux Falls but Ma has this horrible cough," Tammy imitated her mother's phlegmy hack, "so Dad said 'nup'. And here we stay."

"You could go by yourself," Rick said, studying the leafless trees behind the bar. _The_ bar, his bar, the only eatery left open in town.

"Yeah, that would be fucking epic. Hit the big city for what? It would be like that time Bart Simpson ran away during Thanksgiving. Not all you think it is."

"Yeah. I hear ya. Scum bag ex- of yours pay his support?"

"Yeah, right after that crazy mini-earthquake. Started spouting off about end of the world apoca-crap." Tammy blew out a chain of smoke rings.  "But he paid up. Did ya hear about Joe and Rosie?"

"Moving to Bismark, right?"

"Yeah. Since the kids and grandkids are there. She said they found a house and everything real cheap."

"Town's shrinking fast," Rick said, dropping his cigarette butt on the ground and grinding it with the toe of his boot.

"Pretty soon we'll be like Cold Oak," Tammy said quietly. "Nothing but ghosts and evil spirits."

"Be careful what you wish for," Rick warned.

~*~

December 24, 2007 

"I can't do this anymore," Enos Lawrence said, leaning forward in exhaustion and abject despondency. His feet dangled over the ledge, sixteen floors above the alley where he normally slept. "My life. Livin' on the streets. No more, man."

"Don't talk like that," the security guard said. He stood a comfortable distance behind Enos, the door leading from the stairwell just behind him locked. 

Enos barked a curt laugh, but straightened up, took in which lights in the building across from him were starting to turn on as the sun set. Noticed no one cared enough to leave their dinner tables to gawk at the possible jumper.  

"That is a long way to fall and the result would be very painful before your life force is extinguished."

"Didn't get much training in this stuff, did you?"

"I have no official training whatsoever, Enos," the guard said.

"How come you know my name and I don't know yours?"

"Everyone on this street knows you. You've quite the reputation."

"For what? Failing in life?" Enos looked down again and saw that there were no emergency vehicles in the area. It would seem the security guard hadn't followed procedures and had not notified anyone about a potential suicide. That would be about right: he'd gone so many years being invisible on the street, why would anyone care about him now?

"You haven't failed, just suffered a setback. Let me tell you what I know. Decorated veteran, first Gulf War. Trained nurse. You save Mickey's life last summer when he had a heart attack."

"How do you know that? I never saw you before in my life."

"I told you. I've heard all about you."

Enos turned his head and took a good look at the guard standing less than five feet away from where he sat on the ledge. He could see the sandy brown hair just starting to grey at the temples, freckled face with deep laugh lines around the eyes, which were the palest blue he had ever seen in his entire forty-four years. Uniform with peaked creases, ironed so stiffly it could stand on its own, but something on that uniform was missing. "Ain't heard a word about you … Not even a name."

"Regis," the man said after a moment's hesitation.

Enos's eyebrow arched, and a smirk played on his lips. "Like the TV guy?"

"I have no idea whom you mean. Enos, either you come away from the ledge or I'll join you on it."

'You step over here, I'll jump."

"No, you won't," Regis  retorted. "Because you don't really want to jump."

"I don't?" Enos said and looked down into the street again. Still no police cars, no ambulance. Just the ever-present twinkling lights of the holiday.

"No," Regis said as he stood by Enos on the ledge. "You want a chance to make a difference. That's all you've ever wanted."

"Don't tell me what I wanted—"

"And you feel that no one has paid attention," Regis continued, undaunted. "I'm here to tell you that attention has been paid, and that you still have a very important role to fill. You must trust me on this, Enos Lawrence." Regis reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a business card. He handed it to Enos. 

Regis turned, started toward the door, then stopped. "You need to be there soon, get yourself established. In the months ahead, people will come to rely on you."

Enos looked down at the fawn-colored business card. "Prairie Medical Center, Rages, South Dakota" was written in brown ink, in an antiquated handwriting. He turned to say something to Regis but no one else was on the roof.

~*~

February 6, 2008 

Patti McAdams thanked the effervescent but extremely incapable young man and took her blueberry muffin and Latte, sized grande, to the table where Rebecca, her friend and colleague, sat with her frippo-whatever reading the newspaper. Patti placed the plate on the small, round table and easing her tired body into the chair, glanced at the headlines.

"Tsk, tsk," Rebecca commented. "Fifty people dead in a tornado."

"Yeah, shame. So early in the year," Patti agreed, sipping her coffee and picking at the tasteless muffin.

"You wanna read?" Rebecca asked. She turned the newspaper toward Patti. "News these days depresses me. Economic collapses, terrorism. I mean, tornadoes in February! Wonder what the world will be like when my kids are grown up, slaving in an office."

"Probably pretty much the same," Patti answered, turning the pages to the back of the newspaper. "The more things change…"

"Yeah," Rebecca said, then added, "Ooh, here's a good one." She rolled her eyes to her right as a young, thirty-something businessman in a blue pin-striped suit strolled up to the counter. 

"Makes me feel like a pedophile," Patti teased. "If I'd had kids, they'd be older than him. Older than you, for that matter."

Rebecca looked across the table at her co-worker, the solitary woman who'd joined the office about nine months after her husband had died. She didn't know much more than that about Patti, except that her dream was to buy a bookstore and spend her days surrounded by antique books.

"Hey, Patti?" she said.

"Yeah, hon," Patti answered, turning to the classifieds. 

"Why work in the records office of the county clerk? Why don't you get a job in a bookstore? Do something you love, something interesting?"

Patti lifted her eyes from the newspaper and frowned at Rebecca. "What brought this on? You sick of seeing me every day?"

The businessman who'd wandered past claimed his caramel macchiato and proceeded to add a shitload, in Patti's opinion, more caramel to the drink. He snapped on a lid and lifted his gaze to catch Patti's stare. From across the room, she could tell he had eyes like that actress who'd been in that horrible _Masters of the Universe_ that Henry had adored so much they carried the video around with them to watch after especially long hunts. Caught in the act of staring, Patti returned her attention to Rebecca.

Who was grinning like the Cheshire Cat. The man rounded the counter and headed toward the door.

"What?" Patti demanded. The businessman, whom Patti's brain had dubbed 'Chachi' because it sounded like macchiato in her caffeine-deprived mind, stopped in the middle of the store, pulled out his cell and began talking into it. Something about his movements, how he handled the phone seemed odd somehow…

"Pedophile, my fat ass. You were checking that man out."

"Don't be ridiculous." Patti glanced back at the newspaper then up at Rebecca. "What were you asking me?"

Rebecca sighed. "I asked why you don't get a job in a bookstore. And don't give me that bullshit about fifty being too old—"

Coffee spilled across the newspaper into Patti's lap as 'Chachi' stumbled into their table. The back of Patti's mind registered Rebecca's squeak of surprise while the rest assessed the immediate dangers around her. She looked into 'Chachi''s eyes and noticed they were still sky-blue, not black, and filled with what looked like horrified embarrassment. Then she noticed that both the newspaper and her slacks were soaked with coffee. 

'Chachi' put his briefcase on the floor and straightened his jacket as he regained his composure. "I am terribly sorry. Are you all right?" he asked as Patti tossed the sodden newspaper into the garbage bin just to her right.

"Me?" Patti asked, stealing a peek at Rebecca whose mouth was still hanging open in shock.  She reached into her purse and pulled out a packet of Kleenex. "Yes, I'm fine. Are you?"

"Oh, yes. Thank you for your kindness. I see I've ruined your newspaper. Let me replace it," he offered, bending down to snap open his briefcase.

"No, that's okay," Patti said, despite Rebecca's obvious displeasure. "I was finished—"

"I insist you finish your reading," 'Chachi' said, handing her his copy of the _Pierre Capital Journal._ "Headlines are the same, but the local content, I find, is of greatest interest."

Patti stared at the front page. "Um, thank you?"

"Again, I am sorry for the temporary inconvenience," 'Chachi' said before disappearing from sight.

Rebecca leaned over to pick something from the floor, groaning as she stretched to reach it. Patti stood, folded the South Dakota newspaper in half, then wiped her slacks with some tissues, trying in vain to get rid of the syrupy coffee before she had to go back to work. Rebecca fiddled with what appeared to be a cell phone, then looked up at Patti.

"Weird. That guy was holding this, right?" she asked, waiting for Patti's nod of confirmation. Rebecca turned it around so Patti could see the screen. "It's totally out of juice. Why would you talk into a dead cell?"

Patti looked down at the _Pierre Capital Journal_. The right hand corner of the back page mentioned a once In a lifetime opportunity: small-town bookstore for sale.

~*~

May 4, 2008

Ashmedai, a reigning prince of demons, a commander of legions of Hell, demon who had bested King Solomon himself, morphed out of the visage chosen for his latest visit to Earth just in time to duck. A piece of pottery whizzed past his ear before it fell to the ground, the shards scattering across the hand-woven, fifth century carpet.

He looked at the broken blue and white vase, at the talons of the dragon that was supposed to represent him, then at the fiery demoness who'd been his consort for more than five millennia. Dressed in one of her favorite leather outfits, red lace spilling the top of the corset, accentuating her more than ample cleavage and eternally slim waistline, her ebony hair freed from its normal braid and flowing down below said waist. Her eyes sparked as she glowered.

"Ming," he said, not bothering to hide his amusement. "What has you riled this time, Lilith dear? Must be something really big."

Fire threatened to erupt from her fingertips. Fingertips which were aimed straight at his groin. "Where have you been?"

"Above. Maybe you've seen the news? In New York?"

Lilith the Younger, Ashmedai's partner in the ruling echelons of Hell, was known for many things: the blue-hot fire that would rise from her feet and surge from her fingers; her lascivious appetite; killing of human babies; fights with Samael's consort, Lilith the Elder. Those were the things upon which her eternal reputation had been built and which made her so attractive.

Ashmedai sighed. Her blatant disinterest in the politics of earth was definitely not among her more positive attributes. "Congressman Vito Fossella was arrested this week. Hell of a coupe for me."

"You idiot!" A fire ball burst from her hand, aimed at the curio cabinet filled with shrunken heads. It, luckily, hit wide of its mark. "Are you so unaware that you don't know what happened?" she screamed.

"What are you on about, Princess?"

"She succeeded! That human is here."

"What human? Fossella?" A terra cotta statue burst in the air above his head. "Okay. Not Fossella."

"No, you fuckwit. That obnoxious hunter whose soul Samael's bitch bought. Azazel tossed his father into the City of Lost Souls. Then he escaped. Remember?"

"Right! Worcestershire."

"Stop being a donkey's ass,” Lilith the Younger demanded, stamping her foot down. "This is serious."

"Fine," Ashmedai laughed. "So?"

"Holy Hell! Have you no ear to the ground? Samael and Lilith are going to use him to get his brother—"

"Azazel's protege, right? Last one standing? Again, so? Didn't they fry the goat?"

"Yes and now the murderer is here. They're going to use him to start the damned Apocalypse."

"Now that is interesting. How are they going to do that?"

"I don't know! Like that bitch is going to let us in on any plan of theirs."

"Hmmm," Ashmedai mused. "An Apocalypse would not be good for me right now."

"Holy Hell you are conceited. It's not good for any of us! I for one happen to like earth as it is. A wonderful yet precarious balance between us and those obnoxious goody-two-shoes angels. Apocalypse and we lose our hunting ground—"

"And our statuses."

"Allegiance and power."

"We need to nip this before it tips."

~*~

June 29, 2008

Coal black clouds churned angrily over his head, threatening to drown him in a torrent of rain that matched his mood. Pavel Dusek stood rigid before the three marble headstones: a large one flanked by two smaller matching markers. The gold etching on each of the three had cost him his entire life savings. Not that it mattered any more: inside those three graves was his entire life.

Large raindrops, unusually cold for the season, started to splatter around him. Pavel took no notice, not even when other mourners in the graveyard fled under open umbrellas.

"I don't understand," he said to no one in particular. "It was just trip to the grocery. To get foods. Not a big thing." He looked up into the sky, squinting and blinking every time a raindrop landed in his eyes. "I would give anything to have them back." He looked back at the headstones. 

Mira and the twins had been in the car, at the intersection just two blocks from their apartment, waiting at the stop light when the light turned green. An SUV, who couldn't wait, had raced through his red light and straight into their small Toyota: hitting the driver's side and sending the car spinning into a street lamp. The older, smaller car folded in half upon impact and looked almost as if it were hugging the pole.

Pavel had been down the street, one block in the other direction, in the electrical store where he worked repairing small appliances. He heard the commotion but didn't pay attention: he was focused on finishing Mrs. Ismaili's stereo. He knew how much she loved listening to music now that her husband had passed on. She was a kind neighbor, wonderful with his twin boys who would soon be turning three, and generous in her explanations whenever Mira had questions about life in America.

His boss, Mr. Adamovich raced outside to see what the sirens were chasing and quickly ran back inside. "Pavel, come quick. I think it is your car."

Pavel had dropped everything and ran outside to see his ugly, green, used car — their first real purchase since fleeing to America — surrounded by firetrucks and ambulances. People were screaming instructions, jogging to the car with heavy tools that looked like pliers and saws. Time slowed as he walked to the car and realized that his family was inside. People held him back, spoke to him, tried to console him but he didn't hear a word they said.

"Anything you want," Pavel said, staring at the puddle forming at the base of Jan's tiny grey headstone. "My life, even my—"

"That would not be wise," someone said from behind him.

Pavel turned around to see an elderly man standing under the willow tree, his head crowned with snow white hair, his light brown raincoat open to reveal a blue pin-striped suit. He wanted to ignore the intruder, but the old man stepped forward and stood beside him.

"Your life is not negotiable, Pavel Dusek," the old man said quietly. He bent forward to place a bouquet of yellow and orange lilies, Mira's favorite, on the grave.

"I do not know you, and so is not your concern what I do," Pavel responded.

"There's where you are wrong. You are at this moment in time my most pressing concern."

"Why?"

"Because what you are about to suggest is a very bad idea."

"What was I going to suggest then, eh?"

"You were about to trade your soul for more time with your family."

"This would be a bad idea? How? I would get —"

"You would get nothing, Pavel." The old man took him by the elbow and led him under the tree, away from the grave. "First, you are not in the right position — geographically or emotionally — to barter your soul. Secondly, at the end of the time you'd be granted, if you were in the right position, you would cause your beloved family immeasurable pain and suffering."

"Are you telling me they did not suffer?"

The old man, Pavel now noticed, had eyes the color of a bright winter's day. He looked at Pavel in a way no one had since the accident: not with pity, but fiery determination. "You are needed now, Pavel. I need you to go somewhere, where they will be waiting for you, where you can start a new life with new purpose and new direction."

"You want me to forget my Mira? My boys?"

"I did not say that. You will never forget them, but you can do their memory proud." The old man pulled out a keyring and handed the keys to Pavel. "The car is outside your apartment building. A map is inside the glove compartment. Go and make your new life."

Pavel looked down at the fob on the keychain: "Rages Electronics and Hardware, Rages, South Dakota".

~*~

August 1, 2008

Juliette stood in the entrance hall, in front of the sweetheart staircase and let her eyes follow the banister up to the first floor. All her life she had dreamed of a wedding here, in Newport's Rosecliff Mansion, and now her daddy was going to grant her that dream. 

In one week she — Juliette Bancroft of the Newport Bancrofts — was going to marry her very own prince, although she had never even heard of his kingdom. Prince Ormudz was handsome, charming, socially well-connected, and most importantly, told her that with her as his, he was destined for great things. In her mind that meant travel and charitable deeds for which they would become world-famous and be awarded all sorts of social honors. She'd be invited to famous events, the kinds that would make her friends green with envy when they read about them in the newspapers.

Letting her eyes sweep down the staircase and out toward the entrance, Juliette felt another shiver climb up her spine. The annoying sensation had started when her father had first introduced her to Ormudz and had been happening with increasing regularity the closer they got to the wedding. Shaking the overwhelming dread that always accompanied the shiver, Juliette picked up her Hermes bag, bought specifically for the season on the Cape, and strolled out of the white terra cotta tiled hallway into the late afternoon.

"Good day, Miss Bancroft," the groundskeeper — what was his name again? — said, a light, indecipherable accent peppering his speech. "How are the wedding plans proceeding?"

Juliette looked across the front grounds, then toward the man in his tan overalls, as he leaned on his rake. "As well as can be expected, …"

"Rodrigo," he reminded her. "Any hesitations?"

She stared at him, wavering between disbelief that he had obviously been watching her while she'd been in the entrance and shock that they were having this conversation. "Pre-wedding jitters. Nothing unusual, I'm told," she answered, wishing her driver would appear so she could go home and take a long bath. 

"Are you sure about that?" Rodrigo asked. "Are you sure your heart isn't telling you that you are making an eternal mistake?"

"Ormudz loves me," she answered softly. Straightening her back, she said loudly, "Daddy would never let me marry someone he didn't think was suitable."

"Unless he got something out of it, of course."

Juliette turned to snap at him for his impertinence, but stopped. She looked into his pale blue eyes, incongruous with his tanned, olive skin tone, then whispered, "What do you mean?"

"Your suspicions are aroused. Perhaps you should listen to your intuition. What's it telling you?"

She looked past the fountain, out toward Bellevue Avenue. How did he know? "Something's wrong," she admitted. "But I don't know what."

"Where's the honeymoon going to be? Where are you going to live in the future?"

"It's supposed to be a surprise."

"What color are his eyes?" Rodrigo asked.

"What?" she asked, gazing again into those blue eyes. "Brown, of course."

"Are you sure? Think about the last time he spoke with your father. What color were his eyes?"

Juliette thought back to last week, when she'd walked into her father's office, surprised to see Ormudz sitting on the settee. The air had been electrified, and that damned shiver had gone up her spine; she'd known she'd interrupted something important. 

"What color?" Rodrigo repeated.

She replayed their conversation, the forced laughter and coerced reassurances. The look on Ormudz's face. "Black. They're black."

Rodrigo grabbed her hand in both of his. "Listen to me, Juliette. You're a pawn in someone else's game, a piece to be used then tossed away. You're better than that. Do not marry Ormudz. Go home, pack and leave."

Tears filled Juliette's eyes and spilled down her cheeks. "How could I do that to my family?"

"You know I'm right. Think of what will happen to you if you marry now. Go home for now, tell no one we spoke but think about it. Follow your instincts."

"But where would I go? What would I do?"

Rodrigo patted her hand, then let them drop. "Head west to South Dakota. You'll know when to stop and you'll know what to do when you get there."

~*~

August 14, 2008

Sam flipped open the hatch of the four-wheel drive he'd liberated three weeks ago and finally allowed himself a deep breath. Behind him lay a farmhouse filled with almost a dozen corpses, only a portion of whom had been beheaded. Outside, in the humidity of late summer, with a breeze blowing in from the north, he could still smell the sickly smell of the rotting, living dead.

He stored his scythe in a plastic bag — cleaning could wait until he returned to Bobby's — and took out the can of gasoline. Any angry spirits that rose from the carnage behind him wouldn't dare raise an eyebrow, but he could hear Dean telling him to make sure the job was complete.

The world had changed. Not with a bang, a war, or nuclear meltdown, but with the rending of flesh by invisible hounds. As far as most were concerned, the universe was stuck in a serious of bizarre events caused by climate change or terrorists: tornadoes in February; snow storms in July; planes falling and disappearing; earthquakes away from fault lines; electrical storms out of nowhere.

For Sam Winchester, these were signs that he was being taunted by Hell itself: we have your brother and there is nothing you can do to stop us now. "Just watch me," was Sam's mental retort.

It had been a surreal scene, to find his targets watching repeats of _Oprah_. What had once been a thriving small family farm, now lay in ruins, the owners dead, their bodies rotting in the garage. Sam had counted nine inside the house and one out back. That one had been dispatched easily: she was strong but petite and snapping her neck hadn't taken much effort at all. Once he'd entered the house, Sam realized that not all of those wanting to better their existence with _The Secret_ — in print and on DVD — were vampires. It took him one commercial break to learn that the living were there willingly. They had asked the universe the wrong question.

Walking back to the house, Sam's head started to pound and the once again familiar ache behind his eyes jolted him to a standstill.

He dropped the gas can and collapsed to his knees. Images of Dean in torment, screaming in pain, calling out for him pulsated behind his eyelids. Between those flashes he saw rotting corpses rising from a graveyard, Black Dogs roaming deserted streets, vampires in search of food, demons roaming free and an explosion of blinding white light.

"Fuck you," he ground out from behind clenched teeth. He forced his breathing to erupt in short, controlled pants until the pain subsided.

When the vision had passed, Sam poured gasoline across the base of the porch and tossed a match onto the liquid. He briefly replayed the vision in his mind as he returned to the car. Not enough information to send him anywhere specific, so why care? Popping open the glove compartment, he pulled out the orange bottle and tossed two Percoset into his mouth then washed them down with a gulp of whiskey.  He drove off, west toward St. Louis and I-70, oblivious that one of those inside the burning house had crawled onto the porch.

Two hours and four swigs later, Sam pulled into the parking lot of 'Joey B's on the Landing'. Before he could open the door to enter the restaurant, his cell phone vibrated its way across the vinyl upholstery. He glanced at the caller ID and for five seconds debated whether he should answer it or not.

"Yeah," he said when he finally made a decision.

"Yeah? That's all you got, boy?" Bobby asked. "Did you forget to charge the phone? Or maybe you got hit on the head and forgot the number?"

"I was busy."

"Too busy to show the common courtesy of answering your phone? How the hell was I supposed to know you hadn't been attacked by those vampires? Or that your head hadn't exploded from those newfangled visions?"

"I'm fine, Bobby."

"Sam," Bobby said, exasperation mixing with concern. "Still getting the same images?"

"Yes, still," Sam said, leaning his head against the steering wheel. The aftereffects of these new visions included the feeling that cotton balls had replaced his eyes. "Like I used to get when Azazel was around, but now with images of Dean."

"So you said. Look, son, these visions, they're serious business. You agreed to keep me in the loop, remember?"

"Yeah. Sorry. Find anything new?"

"Not to help Dean, but I've got a shitload of demonic activity. And all conveniently centered around a favorite spot of ours." Bobby waited a second then asked the question. More out of courtesy than anything else. He already knew Sam's answer. "You okay to go on, or you need a rest?"

Sam sat up and looked across the parking lot as people streamed into the restaurant. "Where to?"

"Few miles north of Cold Oak."


	2. Chapter 2

 

Patti took the coffee pot and walked through the front of her store — her very own bookstore, complete with first editions, latest bestsellers and no customers — to the table she'd set outside back in spring, on the sidewalk under the store's awning. Eight in the morning and it was already shaping up to be a humdinger of a summer's day in South Dakota.

Pouring the coffee into Rebecca's parting gift to her — a garish green mug with the county logo on it — she surveyed the main street of the town she'd adopted. Rages. So mind numbingly quiet one had to wonder how it had even gotten its name. Rick, the local — and only — bar owner said 'lore had it it was named after the founder, Jeremiah Rages. Jeremiah and his family had come across with a wagon train, settled in Cold Oak, then fled a short distance north. The family never really grew, Jeremiah'd only had one son and the last of the family line had moved out of town two weeks before Patti'd begun her cross-country trek.

"Morning," Pavel said as he walked down the sidewalk. "It will be hot today, yes?"

"I should think so, since it's already eighty. You're having coffee with me, right?"

Pavel smiled, something he'd only started doing recently. "It would be very nice, yes. I brought those switches you asked me for and will put them in after coffee."

"That's fantastic. Thanks," Patti said. She smiled then raised a hand to flag down Sara. "Ah, here comes trouble," she announced loudly.

"Morning, folks," Sara said. She took the seat next to Pavel, leaving the one next to Patti free. "How's it hanging?"

"That is a stupid expression," Pavel said.

"Yep, but hey, never said I wasn't stupid," Sara joked and pulled a filled coffee mug toward her. "So?"

"It's hanging good," Pavel answered with a nod, stirring five spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee. Patti shuddered at the sight.

"Excellent. Patti?"

"Same. I hear the Frank farm had a cow problem last week."

"Yeah," Sara agreed. "Something about cows tipping over and dying. Had Rick in stitches all night."

"Not good for the cows," Pavel surmised.

"Nope," Patti said, watching out for the town's other newcomer to join them for coffee. Her smile broadened as he rounded the corner and crossed the street. "Here's Enos."

"We're a hell of a group," Sara said. "One moves in and five move out. Do we smell or something?"

"Hey, y'all," Enos said as he joined them. "Gonna be a scorcher."

"Indubitably. How's Mrs. Montgomery?" Patti asked. "Didn't you and Doc take a trip out to her place yesterday?"

"Well, I did. Pass the milk please, Pavel." Enos nodded at Pavel then poured a small amount of milk into his coffee cup. He took a sip and sighed. "Silly old girl didn't listen to Doc, so when the mercury hit a hundred-four she went faint from dehydration. I had to listen to her complain about the rolling power outages for an hour and a half."

"Have you figured out what's causing them, Pavel?" Sara asked. 

"We need pastries," Enos mumbled.

"I know, right?" Sara agreed then looked back at Pavel.

"No," he answered. "I looked at all the … um …"

"Specs?" Enos supplied.

"Yes, thank you, for the town and source of electricity is not a problem."

"In other words, random," Sara said. "It's just like when this substitute we had in chemistry used to come into class. The lights always flickered. We'd laugh and he'd get royally pissed off." Sara sighed. "That was the year David, my high school boyfriend, died. So sad." She watched Patti's concentration wander off. Seemed to become a habit with her in the past few days. "Like I was saying, random."

"Yes," Pavel agreed. "And pastries would be very nice."

"Hey, Patti," Sara said. "What's with the newest town visitor? June, right?"

Patti sighed. "Not sure." She didn't know how much of what June had revealed to her that she should, or could share. So much of it tugged at Patti, reminding her of days long behind her.

"She's running," Pavel said. "Tammy, she told me that this June came to Rick's and had no identification."

"Maybe her wallet was stolen," Sara suggested.

"Gotta agree with Pavel," Enos said. "She has that look."

"What look?" Sara asked.

"The always scared that she's running from someone or something," Pavel explained.

"Okay, this place," Sara said, taking another sip of her coffee, "is totally turning into a Nora Roberts' novel. Think she's a cordon bleu chef?"

Patti's eyes opened wide and then both women burst into laughter. The chuckles were cut short by the approach of a loud engine. All turned to watch a large Chevy Impala drive down Main Street, past them toward the other end of town.

"That car is amazing," Enos said. "My cousin had one of those, but it was brown. Classic."

"It's old, yes?"

"Hideous," Sara said. "Absolutely hideous. What do you think, Patti?"

Patti was busy trying to remember what she had heard on the grapevine about the owner of a black '67 Impala. 

~*~

  


Ashmedai ducked to avoid hitting his forehead on the overhang. Why would anyone in their right mind consider this place — where it was always midnight on a moonless night — a sanctuary? 

He hated the darkness: in it everything was colorless and indiscernible.  Where was the temptation in that? Give him the assault of a blazing desert sun anytime. 

"You summoned me," he called out, but only echoes acknowledged his arrival.

Someone had sent an imp with a decree that he appear at this place, at this time. There had been no explanation given, but the source was enough to warrant his obedience. His eyes scanned for Lilith the Elder, the "grandmother of all demons" whose appearance, or lack of appearance would give him a clue. Usually she left an olfactory trace behind, but he could discern no evidence that she'd been there recently. 

 As much as he hated the darkness, he hated being forced to wait even more. He had things to tend to, a woman to pursue, souls to destroy, a dragon to feed, a plot to put into action.

"I want to talk to you about …" boomed the sepulchral voice. "The elder Winchester offspring. What's its name?" 

Fucking 'bout time, Ashmedai thought, keeping his impatience carefully veiled. "Dean, I believe. Haven't really been paying attention to the gossipmongers, Samael. I've other business to attend to. Minor civil war, recent liberations, _et cetera_." 

"Yes, well," Samael said without agreeing, finally stepping out from the shadows. "His removal of Azazel is still causing ripples. No ascension has so far been successful. Behemoth keeps eating any who try." 

"And you think his recent arrival here will—" 

"Hardly. His brother on the other hand is about to mature into a formidable ally or foe. As the time nears, I'd prefer the former. As would you, I presume." 

 "But of course," Ashmedai answered with a guarded roll of his emerald eyes.  "Goes with out saying. May I presume that you have a plan on how to use this boy?" 

"But of course," Samael mocked. "What does the child want more than anything? Get him his Dean, at any cost, then use it to entice him to me." 

Ashmedai wondered when he got stuck with the shit jobs. Oh, right. When the damned human brat offed Azazel. "Do you want me to deliver a handwritten invitation? Is he even old enough to know how to read?" 

"How you do it is your decision." Samael chose to ignore the sarcasm. "Make it known who his allies are here, who made such a generous gift possible. 'The enemy of my brother is my enemy' and all that claptrap if you think it will work. I want this war to swing in **my** favor. Isn't that why Azazel chose him? To be his protégé?"

"Whom do you want killed then?"

"Absolutely anyone or anything that stands in the way. I **_will_** rise and you will see to it that it is done **_my_** way."

Like Hell I will, Ashmedai thought.

~*~

  


The bell above the door chimed and June walked in. The day after she'd arrived in town, she'd discovered the bookstore moments before Patti was to close for the day. First editions were proudly displayed on shelves encircling the room, with bestselling paperbacks in shelves in the middle. But then a truck had backfired, and June'd jumped and burst into tears. Patti had led her to the worn rattan chair in the corner, the one with the blue floral cushions, and made her a cup of coffee. Sipping the coffee, June'd let it slip how she had enjoyed the demitasses in Provence. Patti had asked her a question or two, and then unbidden, everything had slipped out.

Patti hadn't judged or told her she was crazy. She had asked questions about her family, her background and engagement. 

"Will your family be looking for you, Juliette?" Patti had asked.

"Probably," she'd said, wiping her eyes with a Kleenex. "But I'm more afraid of Ormudz."

Patti had been walking around the small space in front of the cash register, rubbing her arms.  She suddenly stopped. "Who?"

"My fiancé. Ex-fiancé. His name is Ormudz. He's a prince and has a lot resources to find me, if he wants."

"He does, yes," Patti told her, as if she knew him. "Why'd you come here? To Rages."

"Rodrigo—"

"Who?"

"Rodrigo. He's the groundskeeper at Rosecliff Mansion. He told me to drive west until I found the place where I should stop."

"And you ended up here." Then under her breath, Patti added, "like the rest of us," but Juliette wasn't sure who the 'rest of us' were. "Okay. Look, first thing we need to do is set you up with official looking documents, change your identity completely. June."

Plans had been made and Patti had given her instructions once she admitted she was the one who used to create fake IDs for her friends in college. They'd change what they could and destroy the rest. She'd gone back to her room and taken out her travel wallet with all her documentation. Sitting in the Badlands' Motel, on the bed with the questionable green and blue paisley quilt, things started to look hopeful. Rodgrido has been right. For the first time since she'd left Newport, she'd slept the entire night. 

"Hey, hon," Patti said as she came out from the back office. "Bring the stuff?"

"And my laptop with the programs," June said.

"Right," Patti went to the door and flipped the sign, locked the door. "Should I have a customer, they picked the wrong day. Let's go make this 'official'," Patti made air quotes, "June —"

June shrugged. "Didn't think up a last name.'

"Collins, okay? My grandmother's maiden name."

"I'd be honored," June said, following Patti into the office.

"Let's get started, " Patti said. She directed June to a small table where normally she would clean and re-glue books. June set her laptop up, pulled out a travel wallet from a Hermes bag and set it next to her MacBook Pro. Patti went to a bookshelf and moved it aside to reveal a recess with a printing station and a heavy-duty wall safe. 

She turned and cast a glance over the contents on the desk. "June isn't going to have as much money as Juliette, hon. Lose the accessories. We'll have to sell your car, too."

June looked at her bag, at her Vacheron Constantin watch, then at her emerald and diamond engagement ring. She glanced up at Patti. "I should be able to live very comfortably here if I can find the right buyers."

"Don't worry," Patti smiled. "I can find you buyers who'll keep it all on the sly. The car we'll sell in Sioux Falls and get you a new one. My friend there can fix us up with some other stuff that will help.  When we're done here, we should go to Rick's and have a cold beer. To celebrate your new life, June Collins."

~*~

  


Sam opened the door to his room, turned, and did a quick sweep of the outside area. The only other car in the parking lot when he had arrived was a silver Merc with Rhode Island plates. The motel, like the town, was virtually deserted. There was another motel, The Rustler, on the exact opposite side of town, but it was boarded up and for sale, like most of the stores on Main Street. He'd seen only one shop open, and he wasn't sure what kind it was. Looked like a cafe, since a group of people had been sitting outside drinking coffee, but why would you have a cafe in a town that didn't even have an operating grocery store?

He entered the room and quickly salted all the windows and doors. Although he was exhausted from the drive, he had work to do before he could rest. After he pulled a bottle of beer from the brown paper bag he'd brought in, Sam unfolded the map of South Dakota and pinned it to the wall of his room. Scanning the list Bobby had given him when he'd switched cars, he began circling in red the areas where suspicious activity had been reported. Occasional reports starting last year: most were scattered, occurring once in Rages, once in Milesville, once in Billsburg, a couple events around Cold Oak and Faith. 

But then suddenly there was an explosion of events around Rages. Vampires in Dupree. A dead man sat up and spoke to everyone at the funeral home in Faith. Cattle falling over dead in Phillip.  It was as if demons had been using the area as an escape route from Hell, causing destruction as they spread out. From the list, all that was missing in Rages were vampires and zombies. They'd had electrical storms, tourists in a nearby national park found ripped to shreds, hailstorms and snow in mid-summer, earthquakes, rolling power outages, packs of huge black dogs roaming the neighboring towns.

All since July. 

Sam finished the beer and rummaged through the bag for another one.  Looking around the room with its decor in garish shades of orange, he wondered how long he'd be here and if it was worth putting runes around the door. 

Then the vision hit and he fell, screaming in pain, to his knees. He didn't hear the Merc rev to life and leave the motel parking lot.

~*~

  


Enos raised his glass of ginger ale, waited for the others to join in. "To new lives, new friends, new futures."

June Collins looked around the table at the people who accepted Patti's story and invited her into their lives. "To a new, quiet life in Rages," she said.

"From your mouth to God's ears," chimed Sara.

~*~

  


"What do you want?" Raphael — one of the four angels of the Presence, archangel of the west — demanded of his summoner. "You called me here, spit it out."

"What? No 'how you been?', 'how's the missus?'?"

"I know how you've been, Ashmedai. It's my job to know that you've been causing mischief and stalking her. I have done and will continue to do everything in my power to ensure that you do not harm that girl. As for your 'missus', I know what she's up to as well."

Ashmedai circled around the room, making sure no other angel — or demon — had followed them. 

"Well? I grow impatient."

"Right," Ashmedai said, convinced they were alone. "We have a problem."

"No. You have a problem," Raphael corrected. "I actually have one less problem, now that Azazel is no longer able to create havoc on earth."

"Yes. Unfortunate his murder, isn't it?" Ashmedai began to pace. "But you seem to forget that that means a hole in the system. His rank must be filled, order maintained."

"The boy has not agreed."

"Except that now Lilith the Elder has his brother, who, if you recall, sold his soul to bring Azazel the Goat's protégé back to life." He paused, waiting for what he hoped was dramatic effect. "Now she and her partner want to use those boys to initiate the Apocalypse." He resumed his pacing, trying to ensure the wording was right. "No one but my Lilith knows me as you do, Raphael. You have been my only other equal over the millennia."

"Get to the point, demon."

"The balance must be maintained." Ashmedai stopped directly in front of the archangel. Emerald eyes met sky-blue. "We want your help getting Dean Winchester out of Hell." 

~*~

  


"Appreciate this, Bobby," Patti said, sitting down at the table in the kitchen. "The Toyota is perfect."

"Anything for you, Pats," Bobby said as he poured two cups of coffee. "Told you that when Henry passed. But when did you start driving a Mercedes?" He sat across from her, taking note of the new lines her husband's death had etched into her face.

"Got anything stronger?" she asked. Bobby got up and grabbed a bottle of whiskey, bringing it back to the table and adding a generous splash to their mugs.  "Thanks. S'not mine. It's for a friend who needs to go underground."

"Got ID?"

Patti chuckled. "Sure 'nuff. Turns out she used to make the fake IDs in college. Helluv an artist."

"So what's she into that she has to go under?"

Patti told Bobby what she knew of June's story, leaving out the names and places so he couldn't reveal any more than the basics, should it ever come to that. "Then some guy, can't remember his name, told her to head out west and she'd know when to stop. And so she found us."

"Us?"

"We're in a town that keeps shrinking except for us newcomers. Oddly, we're all looking to start fresh, ya know?"

"Patti, who's she running from? 'Cause I know you know."

Patti took a long drink of her coffee before admitting, "A demon named Ormudz."

"Ormudz," Bobby repeated. Patti nodded. "As in Lilith's son, Ormudz?"

"I reckon. Who else would have such a stupid name?"

"Huh, funny old world," Bobby mused. "Seen his momma 'round?

"Nah. No demons that I know of. Why?"

"John Winchester's youngest wants to kill her."

She snapped her fingers. "That's where I've seen the car. God, getting old sucks."

"What car? The Impala? Patti, where you living?"

"Rages. Just a coupla hours west of here."

"Well, I'll be damned. Looks like I gotta get you caught up on the Winchester saga, Pats."

~*~

  


Sam kept his eyes cast downward and rested his forearms on the counter so that he would stay upright on the stool on which he had balanced himself. Beneath his right arm, Bog proclaimed his right to spread mayhem and disease. He didn't want to know what was under his left sleeve. Not that it mattered; tonight he was beyond caring about balance, sobriety, hygiene or communicable diseases. 

Three months, fourteen days — Sam glanced at the neon Budweiser clock above his head — sixteen hours and twenty-four minutes ago, Dean had been dragged into the depths of Hell. Since that day, Sam hadn't slept or closed his eyes for too long. Every time he did, horrendous visions replayed bits and pieces over and over. What he said, didn't say, should've said. What he did do, didn't do, shouldn'thave done. 

Since Dean's death, he and Bobby'd scoured every possible resource, interrogated every demon they uncovered. This wasn't like with the Trickster. He'd had a definite target then, a specific goal in mind. Now, he had nothing. All the leads had proven worthless, and none of the possible plans to get Dean out included a way to bring either one of them back alive. 

Off to his right, he heard the bar's door open and close, briefly felt the daylight enter the room. The clock sputtered and flickered, sending Sam's muddled senses on alert. A voice, sonorous and imposing, blasted from the kitchen, "The hell! Every freaking day, damn it!  Why do I pay them if they can't keep the electric going?"

With a resigned sigh, Sam put his head in his hands and closed his eyes. The hairs on the back of Sam's neck stood on end and he braced himself.

"Sam. I finally found you." He squeezed his eyes to block out the image behind the voice. It was different. _She_ was different, he knew that, he'd seen her once last week, trailing him, but when she spoke, all he could picture was Ruby on the ground, the lifeless body next to Dean's. Not this petite redhead with a high-pitched Texas twang.  "Let's get you out of this dump." 

"G'way." 

"This isn't going to bring him back." 

" _I_ will _get you out, Dean."_  

_Dean's mouth lifted gently, but missing were the telltale crinkles at the corners of his eyes. Instead his eyes glistened with the fear he'd been trying to quell. "I'm counting on that."_

Sam snorted and took a swig of his beer, signaling the new bartender for another. Sometime since his arrival and new Ruby's, the bartenders had changed. This one didn't try to make inane conversation with him like the last one had. He waited to answer Ruby until the brown bottle appeared before him.

"You said you could save him 'fore, but you lied." Sam took a long pull of the beer before continuing. "You lied and then hightailed it out of Dodge. 'N now where is he? We killed Azazel, so does she have him? Why the hell won't you tell me?" he said. Or at least he thought that's what he said. Six bottles on an empty stomach — four before he'd found the town's only bar — he wasn't quite sure what burst out of his mouth. 

"Nothing is going to work unless you can function." 

Sam spun around on the stool, toppled briefly then righted himself. "I lost my brother. D'you understan' what that means? Whole family's all gone. Jus' me now, an' I'm functionin' jus' fine." 

"Drinking yourself into an alcoholic stupor is fine? Isn't this exactly what you accused your father of doing after your mother—" 

"You," Sam said, pointing a finger in the demon's general direction. "You do NOT mention them. You fuck off." 

"Fine." she crossed her arms over her chest. "How are you getting back to the motel?" 

"I said 'fuck off'," Sam replied. Keeping his stare centered on her glare of doom — eerily similar to the one she had cast when she wore the old Ruby's body — he leaned against the bar and asked the bartender, "She deaf or jus' 'tuse?" 

Behind his back, the new bartender arched an eyebrow and shook her head. She'd been watching this gargantuan since he strolled in an hour ago, while she was sitting in a booth chatting with Pavel and June, and now couldn't decide if he was drunk or faking it for his audience. Either way, he was the most entertainment she'd had since the deadly cow tipping story hit the rumor mill.

"Someone'll call him a cab when he's had enough," was her answer. 

Sam almost turned around to see what the bartender looked like — her voice reminded him of Jessica Rabbit and he immediately conjured up the image of a voluptuous blonde in a tight, strapless dress and cowboy boots (he was in South Dakota, after all) —  but he was afraid that as tipsy as he was, he'd started to laugh. Instead, he peered into what was left of his beer.

"Had 'nough, a loonnng time ago. Everyone kept pushin'," Sam mumbled into his bottle as he lifted it to his mouth. "Changin' the game to suit their own damned agendas." 

 "It's obvious he's already had enough," Ruby mach-two snapped, disgust crossing her face when Sam belched loudly. 

"Only to you," the bartender replied, her voice displaying no sign of a Dakota accent, and Sam's mental picture of the cowboy boots changed into sparkly heels. "Maybe you'd better leave the man alone. Like I said, we'll make sure he gets back to his motel safely." 

Keeping his gaze averted from those around him, Sam turned back to the bar and put his bottle down. God, he wished Ruby mach-two would disappear. The sound of her new voice was giving him a throbbing headache.

"Who'll make sure he doesn't choke on his vomit?" 

"If need be, I will," the bartender answered. "Now, unless you plan on buying the next round, I'd suggest you find the door. Your presence is bothering the other patrons." 

"What other patrons?" 

Sam rested his head against his left hand and closely examined the grain of the bar's wood through the decades of varnish.

"Fine! You're bothering Ralph."

Sam heard the door slam as it was thrown open then as it slammed shut in Ruby's wake. He refused to lift his eyes up from Bog's message on the counter, and so missed the look of sympathy from the bulky, muscular frame that had emerged out of the kitchen. He barely registered the gentle pat on his arm. 

"She's gone now. I'll bring you some coffee and Rick's gone in to make you something to eat," the bartender said. "When you're ready and able to stand upright for thirty seconds, we'll sort you out." 

Sam nodded but the small movement sent his head spinning and his stomach began to roll and heave. The woman put a mug of steaming, oily coffee under his face and snatched the bottle of beer from him. 

"Wasn't done with that," he grumbled, mesmerized by the rainbow in the cup. 

"Yes, you were. Like I said before, you're going to drink whatever coffee I put before you, eat what Rick calls a burger and sober up," she said, stirring three packets of sugar into the mug. 

"F'you insist."

"I do. How many have you had? Honestly." 

"Six. Seven. Dunno." Sam grimaced as the coffee burned a path down his throat.

"And not even happy hour," the bartender said. "But like your girlfriend —" 

"NOT my girlfriend. Not even a friend. She's a succubus without a libido. A dried-up demon bitch." 

"Whatever she is, she's right. You can't tend to any problems while you're speeding toward oblivion." 

"Your degree in psychology?" Sam asked. "If so, you suck." 

"Oooh, aren't you the pleasant drunk?" When she leaned across the bar, vanilla assaulted his senses making him simultaneously hungry and nauseous. "Actually, my degree's in ancient history but don't tell anyone. It's highly classified," she whispered in his ear. Straightening up, she stuck her hand under his face. "Sara Benzohar." 

He stared at the long fingers with the manicured nails painted pastel pink before he shook the offered hand. “Zohar? Like the book?" Sam sneered. "Sam Winchester." 

"Like the rifle?" she mimicked, refilling his cup. 

"Ha. That's new. How'd you end up in someplace, South Dakota? Trackin' lost tribes?" 

A bell clanged. "Drink your coffee, smart ass. Not as good as June's or as strong as Patti's but it'll sober you up," she said but continued talking as she turned toward the serving window, "We're in Rages, South Dakota and while you're working on self-destruction, I'm working my way across the states." 

He lifted the mug. "Tendin' almost empty bars?" 

"Protecting morose, angry drunks from — what'd you call her? — dried-up succubi." She placed a cracked, white plate in front of him and aimed one of those pink fingernails at the large, juicy hamburger and the mound of hot, greasy fries. "Eat that and spill the beans. Like you and your not-girlfriend pointed out: we're not busy right now." 

Sam finally glanced up at the owner of the deep, husky voice. Looking straight into her face, he figured she came up to his shoulders, at most. Ringlets of dark chocolate hair had escaped a loose ponytail and she tucked an errant lock behind her ear. Deep set, light brown eyes regarded him with a blend of curiosity and amusement, one eyebrow arched dramatically as she watched over him. She did have the hourglass figure with a tiny waist, he'd grant her that, but instead of Jessica Rabbit's red dress, she wore a faded blue T-shirt with Case Western Reserve emblazoned in yellow across her chest, tucked into a pair of well-worn jeans. 

He sighed wearily. "My brother's gone. My big brother. My only brother. Not like the other times. This time for real. Went to Hell. On my birthday."

Sara replied with an automatic, "Happy birthday." Then she put one of those manicured hands to her mouth and mumbled, "Shit. Sorry."

"Right," Sam said with a snort. "Happy fucking birthday. Today's…?" 

"Sunday, seventeenth of August, and there's a full moon tonight but it won't be visible because of the eclipse," she answered and poured some ketchup onto his plate. "And you're sure he's in Hell?" 

Sam lifted the top bun and stared at the concentric swirls of ketchup and mustard. "I'm sure." 

"I'm taking it not-girlfriend was supposed to help you keep him away from there." 

"Yeah." He pushed the plate back toward Sara. "Thanks, not hungry." 

"Tough shit, eat it any way. Don't make me call Rick in here. He used to wrestle and you're in no shape to challenge him." 

She hovered nearby while Sam picked at the food, chitchatting away, meandering back and forth occasionally to replenish the coffee and check on someone she called Ralph, who sat in a corner booth next to the jukebox. His regular spot, at least as long as she'd been working here, she told Sam, every day from four until dinnertime, although he never actually ate in the bar. She explained her theory, while refilling his coffee, that Ralph's wife had him on a short leash and expected him home by dark. Occasionally, Sam would hear the door creak open and shut, Sara's banter as she greeted each customer. Even though he could hear his father's voice echoing in his brain, he didn't bother to glance around the room while she chatted. He refused to acknowledge the fog of humanity, instead concentrated on clearing his head and keeping the food down. 

Sara returned to pour more coffee. "One last question," she said quietly, her voice lilting at the end. "It's going to sound weird, but I've seen some really weird shit, so let me ask it anyway."

Sam shrugged one shoulder and lifted the mug to his mouth. He must be sobering up: even with an overdose of sugar, he could tell the coffee was terrible.

"Your brother's in Michigan?" She twisted an Anheuser-Busch towel in her hand while she waited for his answer. 

"No. Not Michigan." 

"Okay," she said with another pat on his arm. "Tammy came back five minutes ago, so I can drive you to your motel now and you can explain your story to me." 

"Nothing to explain." 

"Sam — Samuel? — Winchester. I'm an avid reader and I know my stories. You said you killed a demon. Not just any demon, but one who is, or was, ostensibly immortal. Most men call their exes 'hos or skanks, you call yours a succubus. And to top it off, your brother went to Hell. One without a DJ that has to answer the phone the first hard frost that comes around. Plus, 'this time,' you said which I don't want to even think what that implies." She folded the towel and put it on the bar. "Whatever the story, it's way better than the _Weekly World News_ , may it rest in peace. Now, the cab company went out of business in July so, give me your keys." 

 "Dean'll kill me if I let someone else drive his car." 

"Dean, huh? Well, Dean'd kill you more if you wrecked his car. Either I drive you and the car's waiting for you there or tomorrow you walk all the way back here with a splitting hangover and pick it up. If it makes you feel any better, I can handle a Toyota hatchback as well as a Mercedes Roadster." 

"And how will you get back?"

"I'll figure something out, big guy," she answered. She held her palm out and wriggled her fingers.

Sam reached into his pockets and pulled out the keys to the car, felt the tears well up and shook them away. "It's the Impala." 

Sara started, then quickly recovered. "Which means what?" 

He chuckled and dropped the keys into her outstretched palm. "Means you and my brother would not get along." 

"That's a good thing. I'm a curse to guys who get along with me."

"Why?" Sam asked.

"Never mind. Long story and you have your own share of problems. You head out while I tell Rick I'm leaving." 

"'Kay," Sam said as he slid off the stool and tested his balance. When he had steadied himself, he left the dimly lit bar with its whining country-and-western soundtrack and stumbled into the fading sunshine. 

"You just gonna stand there soaking up the last moments of daylight, Sasquatch?" 

Sam spun around, slowly since his sense of balance seemed to be the last thing to sober up, and stared at Sara. His estimate was right; she only reached his shoulders because of the heels on her boots. 

"What'd you call me?" 

"Sasquatch. Yetis are white-haired." 

Sam's eyes filled up again. "Dean called me that." 

Sara smiled softly and put her hand on the small of Sam's back, urging him toward the black monstrosity they'd seen driving down Main Street yesterday. "Sounds like a stand-up guy with a warm sense of humor. Holy Moses," she announced when she yanked the door open. "Car needs a can of WD-40, man." 

"Old cars creak," Sam explained as he folded himself into the passenger's seat. 

"Old cars are bull shit," Sara said. She watched Sam's expression revert to the mournful one he'd worn in the bar when she brought the driver's seat forward. "Nothing beats the smell and ride of a new car, preferably one someone else paid for. And this one? With the price of gas? How the hell do you manage?" 

"Don't disrespect the girl. It's the Badlands' Motel. On route —" 

"I know where it is. Opposite end of town from The Rustler. Kinda out of the way, yeah? What brings you here?" 

"I don't know. Just drove 'til I couldn't," he lied. "Drove up from Cold Oak." 

Sara shot him a quick glance. "You come up with the damnedest statements. Isn't Cold Oak a ghost town?" 

"Yeah. I'm in room twelve or fourteen or maybe fifteen. Just park in between them. I'll remember which one when I see it." 

"Right. Because thirteen is honest to heaven unlucky." Sara pulled out of the gravel parking area and on to the road. "You have ten minutes drive time, make the story intriguing enough. I might feel obligated to rub it in not-girlfriend's nose that you didn't sleep in your own puke." 

~*~

  


He followed the woman as she stomped out of the bar, around to the side alley. She stood there, mumbling to herself — or, he surmised, someone not visible to the human eye — periodically stomping her feet in anger.

It was apparent she had hoped to take the newcomer away from Rages, but why, he didn't know. And he couldn't risk anyone else finding out who was here.

Not just yet. Not when the plan hadn't even begun to take shape.

The woman stopped muttering and turned around to see a middle-aged man, of average height and build, dark hair starting to grey at the temples, dressed in a rumpled dark brown jacket and worn jeans. He approached her from the head of the alley.

"Can I help you, old man?" she snapped. He stepped under the street light and she recognized him from the corner booth of the bar.

"Yes, actually, you can," he replied, continuing to close in on her. "I was wondering if you knew that young man in the bar."

"Yeah. What's it to you?"

"Everything," he said. 

As he neared, Ruby saw the determination in his pale blue eyes. "Do I know you?" she whispered.

He grabbed her by the throat and lifted her body off the ground. "You do now. Be gone, demon and do not speak a word of this lest I personally send you back to your master with your tail between your legs."

He let the woman's body drop and with a wave of his hand, she disappeared.

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

Patti trudged up to her two-bedroom apartment above the store, exhausted from moving boxes of estate sale discoveries, followed by solid research into the demons plaguing the Winchester family. She was strangely exhilarated to be back in the game, despite the numerous aches and painful joints she'd accrued since retirement. Her eyes were killing her from five hours of close readings, both on the computer and in the musty, yellowed tomes she'd brought with her to Rages. It had been Henry's life into which she had married, his family's vocation  — one that they'd done for generations. Daughter of an old-time Appalachian minister and a highly superstitious mother, she had been schooled in the dangers of devils and evil spirits. Temptations lurked in every corner, and damnation for those who yielded followed close behind.

She and Henry had traversed the country, searching out and disposing of demons, vampires (just that once), ghosts and the like. It had been an avenging spirit, a teenage boy bludgeoned by his father, that had thrown Henry across a football field into the scoreboard. Henry had been electrocuted; the coroner had assured her that his death, unlike the boy's, had been instantaneous.

She'd retired from hunting right after the funeral, moved to Charlestown, West Virginia, and with fake credentials, got a job in the Kanawha County records' office. Where she was working when some blue-eyed twit had spilled coffee on her and handed her the ticket to Rages. Where demonic activity was accelerating and now John Winchester's youngest son had been sent by Bobby Singer to keep him from killing himself on a grief fueled vengeance hunt.

God save them all if the kid had grown up as stubborn and explosive as John. She remembered Sam — they'd met once in Blue Earth — but he'd been all of fourteen. Gangly, monosyllabic and grumpy around his father. A reclusive teenager who used his studies to escape. Dean on the other hand, she recalled, had been cocky, self-assured and very flirtatious. Dean, who had traded his soul to bring his little brother back to life. 

Oh, for the simple days of werewolves and wendigoes: things that can be killed.

She pressed the answering machine and listened to the message left for her while she had been ensconced in her reading. 

"Shit," Patti exclaimed as she rushed off to the Badlands' Motel.

Her mind was racing as she sped across town. All Sara had said was that the driver of the Impala had passed out in his room and that she needed a ride home because, to quote Sara, she was now "scared utterly shitless to walk the short way into town."

Tires squealed as Patti pulled into the motel and parked her car next to the Impala, the only other car in the lot being June's "new" Toyota Corolla. Lights were on in the room June was staying in, as well as the one next to hers. As she turned her attention to the room numbers, Patti stifled a groan of disbelief: the owners had purposely left out the number thirteen. 

As if that would make any difference in this town, she thought to herself.

Patti tried to get out of the car quietly but the curtains in window of June's room moved and she knew June was checking to see if someone had finally found her. Sara opened the door to room twelve, looked back inside, then stepped out on to the sidewalk. 

"Thanks, Patti," Sara said. "I didn't know who else to call."

"Kid in trouble?"

June came out of her room, dressed in a silk and lace nightgown, a light sweater draped over her shoulders. "What's going on?"

"Nothing. Well," Sara looked between the two.  "It's about the owner of that car," she said, jerking her thumb at the Impala. "He came into Rick's, totally soused already and um —" She glanced back at the door.

"Did he hit you, Sara?" June asked in a hushed whisper.

Sara spun to face June, her brow furrowing in confusion. "What?" she said. "Oh, God. No, no, no. He'd be in the hospital if he had. Why do you say that?"

"He was screaming and throwing things earlier," June explained, picking nervously at her newly shortened fingernails. "Like he was really upset or something."

"Nah," Sara said with a shrug. "Well, that might have to do with his ex-. She came into the bar, they had a fight and I convinced her to leave.  After Rick fed him, I drove him back here and he downed even more alcohol, then got pathetically maudlin. He told me all this weird shit and about his brother —"

"Dean," Patti interrupted. "Sam's older brother is called Dean."

"Wait! What? You know him?"

"I did. Many years ago." Patti sighed. "Sara, how's his frame of mind? Will he be okay on his own?"

"Yeah," Sara answered, furrowing her brows again. "He's out like a light in an alcohol induced snore-fest. Mutters and cries in his sleep a lot."

"Good. June, hon, can we take this into your room?" June nodded and turned to go back inside.

Sara grabbed Patti's arm and stopped her before she could go into the motel. "Patti, he told me about ghosts, vampires, djinn, werewolves, things I can't pronounce: stories I studied as an undergrad, watched on television late at night, and stuff we've heard recently but thought they were just urban legends.  He said some of it is happening right here. What the hell is going on?"

"Hell is right," Patti whispered. "Look, I'm going to be brutally frank with you two, and then you decide what you want to do. I'm beginning to think we were sent here for a reason. He—"

"Him? The guy that told me to come here had blue eyes. So did yours, you said. Sam has hazely green eyes that water up like a faucet."

"No, Sara. I think this, or at least some of this, has to do with June." She hooked her arm through Sara's. "But I could be wrong."

"What about her?" Sara whispered. 

"Her fiancé, ex-fiancé — he's a demon. Ormudz, son of Samael and Lilith."

"Lilith the Elder to be exact, " Sara corrected, without thinking. She stopped and stared at Patti. "Oh, my God. Seriously?" Patti nodded. "Like I said, fucking weird shit."

"Amen, sister," Patti said. " Amen."

~*~

  


Life since Ronny's death had been far from perfect, but for a while Sara got by wandering from job to job, moving on whenever she started to think too much. Or in this case, not moving on when her car broke down just outside of Rages, half a mile past the Badlands' Motel. On the suggestion of Ralph, who just so happen to have been passing by, walking into town he'd claimed, she'd wandered into town and went into 'Rick's Bar and Grill'. For some unknown reason, she was drawn to the people eating lunch inside and began a conversation with Patti and Enos. Two weeks later, when the part for her car had arrived and been installed (at a cost of eight-hundred dollars in parts and labor), she decided to stay in town for a little while longer.

Then the weird shit that was her life followed her to Rages: electrical surges; sightings of dead people; packs of wandering rabid dogs; everything short of another boyfriend dropping dead like she were some Private Benjamin. Which couldn't happen because she'd sworn off relationships of the intimate type, just to be safe. She'd buried, literally, five boyfriends since high school. She'd been counting down the days until she'd be able to move on, when, like one of her father's bad jokes, Sam Winchester walked into the bar.

Sara put the coffee cup down on the small Formica table under the window and mulled over the past twelve hours. This guy didn't look much older than she was and his life was literally Hell on Earth. Over the course of the night, when he wasn't drinking or crying — man, he was maudlin — Sam Winchester had told her the most amazing tales, changing locales and details each time he poured himself another drink. This tall — Lord, he was tall and well-built — but very drunk man had provided her with lucid details, specifics the kind of which only a medievalist could spout.

Then she'd discussed it with Patti and June. First Patti told June the “truth” about her ex-fiancé — which June took very well considering she had been the planned sacrifice for universal domination — then explained how the odd events in and around Rages that they all laughed about, were no laughing matter. Rather, most of them were signs of demonic activity, confirming all the shit drunk Sam had spouted.

Demonic activity! Which she knew her brother Aaron, the Fedora-wearing, the-end-is-very-fucking-nigh rabbinical student would eat up like his favorite Ben-and-Jerry's ice cream. She suggested to Patti that she bring him in on the discussion. Reluctantly, Patti agreed that Sara should question Aaron, without alarming him, about what they might be dealing with. 

She had made the call at five in the morning, only to be met with demands and accusations about her lack of sanity. It took fifteen minutes of arguing to ensure him that she was fine, she would be home when she worked things out and that yes, she had written their parents. It'd been a postcard from the Grand Canyon a few months ago, but hey!, at least she'd written. Not like some born-again Jerusalemite she knew, who had yet to send their mother the birthday card he'd promised. When the interrogation was over, Sara began to ask him about Hell and demons, confirming details from Sam's stories, gaining insights and making her brother even more nervous than he had been since she had abruptly left home just after the High Holy Days. 

New year: new life. And what a life this was shaping up to be.

Add to that the bulletin on the breakfast news … 

Sara looked across the room at the lump under the gaudy red and orange bedspread and decided it was time he got started. After another gulp of coffee, she stood and jerked the burnt orange curtains open.

"Rise and shine," Sara yelled as loud as she could without disturbing the neighbors. "It's eight-thirty already."

"Shaddup, Dean." Sam rolled on to his side. "Gonna hurl." 

"Yeah, I'll bet. You drank all of the red label." Sara smirked. "Come on! Up and at 'em! Let's get this show on the road!" 

"Not so loud." Sam rolled on to his back and threw an arm over his eyes. "Close the curtains."

"No. Come on, you've got things to do before we set out."

"What?" Gingerly dragging himself upright, he leaned against the headboard and squinted against the sunlight. His brain throbbed against his skull and whatever he'd eaten the night before bubbled up his esophagus. "Sonuvabitch, my head. Who—?"

"Sara," she supplied. "You don't remember? After last night?" She grinned broadly and fanned herself with her hand. "Very impressive. _That_ alone would convince many in all the Heavens and Hells to join your side."

Despite the blinding pain behind his eyes, he stared at her wide-eyed, his face growing flush with embarrassment. "Oh, God. We, I don't, we didn't—" 

"Save the guilt. We didn't." She waited until Sam's eyebrows lowered and the blush faded before she snickered. "After you poured out your heart, the Wild Turkey and the Johnny Walker, you went into the bathroom, puked for a long time, came out stark naked. Then you crawled under the covers and started to snore. Loudly."

"Oh, God. Sorry. Wait. And you stayed the night?" 

After a quirk of an eyebrow and a shrug of a shoulder, Sara moved to the kitchenette area. "I told you to make the story interesting and ooh-wah, did you ever. Plus, you know, I promised to not let you sleep in your puke. Had to make certain." 

As soon as he was sure her attention was elsewhere, Sam swung his legs over the side and pulled the sheet off the bed with him as he rose.  

"Shit," he mumbled. He waited for the vertigo to ebb away before moving any further. "What'd I tell you?" 

"Pretty much everything, I think. Except your shoe size. But going on what I saw, and I'm pretty sure I saw it all, I'd guess at least a thirteen." Ducking into the bathroom to retrieve the nearest pile of clothing, Sam heard her yell out, "Look, I'm going to heat up the hangover special Karen made you for breakfast —"

"Karen?" he repeated as he pulled on his jeans. 

"The motel manager. Nice lady. Tammy’s mom.” A bell dinged and Sam heard the microwave's door open and shut. "I explained, sort of," Sara continued, "your circumstances, Mr. Van Zant." 

Shrugging on a shirt, Sam reentered the room. On the table was a plate laden with bacon, toast, and runny scrambled eggs and next to the plate, a second mug. "Van Zant?" he said, seating himself at the table. 

"Am I the only one who hears an echo? Three days ago, at three PM to be exact, you checked in under the name of 'D. Van Zant'. I told Karen how 'D', your brother, died tragically in Michigan and how you came here to escape nagging relatives. You must have pulled out his credit card by mistake, blahblahblah. She felt sorry for you, hence the breakfast." 

"Huh." 

"It was a good story, if I do say so myself. But seriously, D. Van Zant? As in Donnie?" 

"Dean has a unique sense of humor." 

"Ya think? Lucky for you, Karen hasn't gotten past Elvis." She pointed to the plate. "C'mon, eat up. You've got a meeting." 

"A meeting?"

"Oh, my God. Questions. Yes, a meeting." 

"Sara —" 

"Look, I ended up in Rages only 'cause my car just so happen to break down outside town. Then I had to wait for parts, since all they have in stock here are tractor parts. Then I get slammed with a honkin' huge estimate and a possible two-week wait. There was a job at Rick's. Get the picture? Since then, I decided to stay a while. Moved into a deceased estate. Was getting all sorts of comfortable here, and now you've totally creeped me out by telling me my childhood nightmares are real. So, you're going to this meeting and figure out how to alleviate my creeped-outedness. In return, we'll help you." 

"With what?" 

"With your brother. Remember him? Dean. Weird sense of humor. Horrible taste in cars. Stuck in Hell…" 

Sam shook his head, and immediately regretted the movement of his brain in his skull. "How can you help? I’ve tried everything." 

"I caught that somewhere between the last night's triumvirate of grief, guilt and guts. Going on what I now know about you, you're not a quitter. Maybe all you need is some distance and a different angle." 

"Sara, you don't know what you're getting involved in." 

"Yeah, yeah. Hell on Earth, Armageddon, tainted blood, anti-Christ, 'demons may be after me', yadda yadda. Well, it's no longer a 'may be'. On the news, this morning. A pack of enormous black dogs were spotted prowling along highway thirty-four south of Milesville, heading north-north-west. Witnesses said they were humongous, aggressive and mangy-looking with red eyes. Red eyes, Sam."

"Black dogs," Sam sighed and scrubbed his hand down his face. "In packs? That's not nor—"

"See? All this crap is straight out of _The Stand_ and Randall Flagg is heading this way. I wouldn't have the first clue what to do." She grinned and fanned herself with her hand. "Helpless female that I am."

"You helpless? Somehow I doubt that," Sam started, then pushed the coffee mug aside. "Fine. The meeting and after that I have work to do."

"We're settled then," Sara nodded. "You'll be happy to know there's a washing machine at my house that can handle your disgusting laundry. You can use it."

"You went through my stuff?"

"Nah. I was talking about the pile in the bathroom. Smells like rotten eggs. Oh, and your cell phone has gone off about fifteen times. Might want to tell people you're still alive."

"if that's what you call it," Sam sighed again. He glanced at the phone on the table. "I'll call them later."

 "Whatever. Look, while you were snoring and sobbing in your sleep, I talked to my brother. We talked about the demons you rattled off and your brother's situation. He said that the only named person to leave Hell alive was Enoch, but he walked out on his own accord. Of course, there are unnamed legends and lore. Then again, he only knows the Jewish sources." 

"You told your family?" 

"Stop with the questions," Sara demanded. "Sheesh, it's like being back in Sunday school: answer a question with a question. Yes, I spoke to my brother. Told him I was writing the next great American horror novel. I had to hang up because he started lecturing me about the laws against black magic. Sanctimonious twit. You're not from Endor, are you?"

"No," Sam answered with a chuckle. "Kansas."

"Holy Moses," Sara laughed. "The anti-Christ has arrived and his name is Dorothy!"

~*~

  


The quiet of the area, just off America's Cup Avenue, never ceased to amazed Julius Thomas Bancroft III. Near both the avenue and the bustle of the wharves, traffic should be more harried, nosier somehow. But miraculously, the frenetic pace of summer in Newport never entered into his offices.

He wandered over to the window to look out toward the wharf where one of his company's yachts was waiting to be christened by its owners. Less than a block away from the wharf, it was an ideal location for the family business. His grandfather had bought this building in the 1930s, after the Naval War College, in a massive expansion, "acquired" the grounds the family had owned since 1823. Things had necessarily changed, times had changed, but the worst was the decline in the family fortune. Life had been desperate until last year, when he met a royal yachting-enthusiast named Ormudz. 

Or so he thought. A number of conversations later, a few promises sprinkled here and there, and Julius agreed to introduce his only child, Juliette, to Ormudz. Julius would convince her of Ormudz's undying love, even though he knew very well that that was not the case. The deal, as Julius secured it, was that Juliette would marry the Prince, and all of the Bancroft fortune would be secured for ten generations. The engagement went off without a hitch, Rosecliff Mansion was secured as the wedding venue, and then things turned ugly.

One day, as Ormudz laid out for Julius the future as it would really unfold, Juliette burst into the office, excited about something she had purchased for the wedding. The tension had been palpable, Ormudz had become enraged at the interruption and Julius had to send his daughter away. She never really recovered her excitement after that, but after a veiled threat from her father, she continued to plan the wedding.

Until one day, she disappeared. She had been, according to reports, inspecting Rosecliff Mansion when her driver picked her up, took her home and was dismissed for the day. She cancelled her spa appointment, something she never missed, and went to the bank, transferring over half a million to an account in Switzerland. The bank manager, of course, alerted him, but Juliette had assured him over the phone that she did it as a safe guard for traveling overseas. Something about it rang untrue, but since he was busy with clients and meetings, he made a mental note to discuss it with her over dinner that night.

Except he hadn't seen or heard from her since then. He tried to put a private investigator on to her, but she seemed to have vanished into thin air. Her Jaguar had been sold for cash in Providence and from that moment on, Juliette Bancroft ceased to exist. 

Julius stonewalled Ormudz as long as he could, but it had been two weeks already and the wedding was a week away. Knowing what would happen to him when Ormudz found out, he up-dated his will, leaving Juliette nothing for her desertion, and arranged for his nephew to carry on with the business.

He heard the ruckus a few minutes before the office door burst open, giving him time to down a second shot of Glen Garioch for courage.

"Where is she?" Ormudz bellowed as he strode into the office.

Julius could see that his secretary, Helen, was dead, her body lying on the floor in an unnatural, contorted position. He looked into the demon's coal black eyes. "I honestly don't know. She disappeared. Vanished."

The muscles in Ormudz's face began to twitch. "Have you looked at all?"

"Of course. Hired a private detective but she's burned all her traces after she hit Providence."

In a lightning-quick move, Ormudz grabbed Julius by the neck and hoisted him off the ground, tightening his hold as Julius's hands clawed at the vice-like grip. "How can a spoiled brat like your daughter disappear without a trace?"

"I don't know," Julius croaked.

"Useless human trash," Ormudz growled. "Forcing me to find the bitch myself. And when I do—"

After the snap, Julius Thomas Bancroft III slipped lifeless to the ground.

~*~

  


Sam followed Sara's directions, driving through Main Street, turning at First, then down Hollows Lane, to park in a gravel lot behind the stores. Along the drive, Sara pointed out the homes of those who had moved or passed away since her arrival in May. A once thriving town — population five hundred plus — was now down to one hundred and eighty-three residents. 

Sara led him up an alleyway between the town's only drugstore and bookstore. The air in the alley was stifling: there was no breeze and the heat and humidity of the day were already climbing. Sam felt a familiar dull throb build behind his eyes. He needed this over with, to get back to his task at hand and find out what was causing the electrical surges and killing the local cattle.  Then he could leave Rages and be far away from well-intended amateurs like Sara.

As they rounded the corner, he noticed the café-like set-up he'd seen when he had driven in town: a small round table and six wrought iron chairs. Sara was in front of the bookstore, peering into the windows.

"Huh," she said, then turned around to survey the street. "They said to meet here at nine. What's your watch say?"

Sam looked at his watch. "Nine-oh-five. Is life here so laid back, you don't have a watch?"

Sara continued looking across the street, turning left then right then left again. "One of those weird electric storms about two weeks ago? Fried my watch." She faced him and shrugged. "It was a just a Fossil one, but Ronny gave it to me one Hanukah."

"Ronny's your boyfriend?"

"Remember I said I was cursed?" Sam nodded. "We were supposed to get married, but he fell into a coma. Never came out of it."

"Sorry."

Sara shrugged. A green GMC Yukon drove past then turned down First. "They're here. God, I hope they brought real food. That crap you were eating made me hungry." Sara turned to look at Sam. "You okay? You look pale."

"Headache. Or possibly food poisoning from the crap you fed me."

"Oh, haha."

The door to the bookstore opened and two women came out. An older woman, slight in build and with short, greying hair, placed a glass coffee carafe on the table then wordlessly went back inside. A blonde, about Sara's age and build, came out carrying a long, plastic container, which she set next to the coffee. 

Sara emitted a high-pitched squeal that set Sam's teeth on edge. "Oh, my God! You angel! You baked!"

The blonde scrunched up her face and popped the lid on the container. With a shy smile, she tilted the container toward Sara, evoking another squeal.

"Kolaches!" Sara grabbed one and sat down at the table. "I told you. This place is so Nora Roberts."

"No," said the older woman who came back out with a tray of mugs, sugar and a creamer. "Pastries are not cordon bleu. And we don't have a murdering sheriff. We have demons. Totally different kettle of fish."

"Demons, sheriff. Whatever," Sara mumbled around her pastry. She hooked a foot around one of the chairs and dragged it out. "Sit, Sasquatch."

"Hi, Sam. Welcome to Rages," the older woman said, sitting down and starting to pour coffee. She placed a mug in front of him as he sat. "Don't remember me, do you?"

He gave her face a thorough appraisal: the forehead that was furrowed with years of worry and framed by hair that was once a medium brown; the dark blue eyes with the deep crows' feet were complemented by the laugh lines around her mouth. "No, ma'am. Should I?"

She smiled softly and continued to distribute the filled mugs. "September ninety-seven. Blue Earth. Latin subjunctive."

Sam thought for a moment then smiled. "Mrs. MacAdams."

"Now that you can drink legally," he heard the subtle accusation in the emphasis of word, "it's Patti."

"Henry?"

"Passed on. Vengeful spirit, late oh-six."

"Sorry to hear that." The ache behind his eyes began again and Sam pinched the bridge of his nose in hopes of relieving the pressure. Last thing he wanted was a vision in broad daylight, on Main Street.

June raised her eyebrows at Sara who nodded in silent acknowledgement. 

"Thank you, Sam," Patti continued. "Now, let's get to brass tactics."

"Mrs. … Patti—" 

"We are not going to sugar coat this. I know Bobby sent you as a distraction and I know why. Sara watched you drink yourself into oblivion and listened to you tell her about Dean, your hunts and about your own predicament—"

"I said you told me everything," Sara said.

"You said you 'saw' everything," Sam corrected. Sara chuckled into her coffee mug.

"So do not want to know," June grumbled.

"As I was saying, we know what brought you here. We'll help you figure out what demons are causing the disturbances and we'll get rid of them."

"I'm sorry, Patti, but I don't think—"

"No, Sam. You don't get a vote. There's more to this place than either of you knew when Bobby sent you here." Patti inhaled deeply then continued. "June was to be married to Ormudz."

Sam watched as June fidgeted in her chair and picked at her kolache. "Who's Ormudz?" he asked.

Sara moved her head to watch someone approaching from the corner of Second.  June looked up, turned around and nodded.

"Ormudz is the son of the demon who dragged Dean into Hell, Sam." 

"Lilith?" Sam asked. The throbbing in his head was increasing rapidly and fuzzy pictures were beginning to form. "She's been here?"

"No," Patti assured him. "As far as we know, they do not know where June is."

"How? How do they not know where you are?" Sam asked June. Her mouth opened then snapped shut. The throbbing became pounding and Sam put the heel of his hand against his forehead. He needed to find out before the vision overtook him. "How does Lilith—"

"The Elder," Sara interjected quietly. Sam spun to look at her, the sudden movement making him nauseous. "What?" she snapped. "There are two of them, you know."

"Two what?" Sam asked. "Liliths?"

"Yep. Thought everybody knew that." Sara frowned, then put her hand on Sam's arm. "You okay?"

Pictures flared in front of his eyes in rapid succession. Sulphur, loam, decaying flesh and heat coursed through his nostrils. Screams of pain and cackles of laughter rang in his ears. Grave markers, Dean bloodied and battered, upturned earth, Dean electrocuted, corpses being devoured, Dean screaming in fear.

Sam pushed away from the table and fell to his knees, groaning in pain. The images repeated as if on an infinite loop. He heard his name being called, heard chairs scraping across the sidewalk, heard heavy footsteps approaching from the street. Through it all the pain ebbed and flowed like a tsunami until it overpowered him and he fainted.

"Sam," he heard, muffled, underwater. "Sam." The voice was masculine but unfamiliar. And again, "Sam." He tried desperately to figure out where he was and what state he was in before he would open his eyes. 

"Hey, Sasquatch!" he heard a familiar voice yell. Sara from the bar.

"Sam, we need to know what was in your vision so we can deal with it." That had to be Mrs. MacAdams.

Slowly, Sam opened his eyes and looked into the face of a middle-aged African-American man with the solid build of a linebacker. He was crouched in front of him, his face creased with concern and light brown eyes flicking back and forth, searching Sam's face. He was dressed in jeans and a grey T-shirt, sleeves rolled up to hold a packet of cigarettes in the left sleeve. 

"I'm fine," Sam said, easing himself into a more comfortable position. "How'd I get inside?"

"I carried you after you face planted on the sidewalk," the man said, his voice a rich baritone with faint traces of the south. "Your head hurt?"

"That would be the hangover, Enos," Sara said. 

Enos pivoted on the balls of his feet to look at Sara, who was leaning against a bookshelf to the left. June was next to Patti on the other side of the bookstore. 

"Your smart-ass answers are gonna bite you one day, Sara."

Sam noted the man's tattoo: an eagle on top of a globe, a green caduceus below the globe. The snakes undulated when his biceps tensed. "Green field corpsman?" Sam asked. 

Enos pivoted back to face Sam. "What?" He glanced at his tattoo. "Oh, yeah. Okay, kid, how you holdin' up?"

"I'll be fine. Just give —"

"Sam," Patti interrupted. "What was in the vision? Besides Dean being tortured."

Sam leaned back against the wicker chair and closed his eyes, summoning the flashes from his vision. "Graves, desecrated, some of them fresh. Daytime. A demon was eating the corpses."

"Any names on the gravestones that might lead us somewhere more specific?" Patti asked. "We have two cemeteries—"

"Four," Enos corrected. "If you count Founders' and Aloysius."

"How fresh?" Patti asked.

"Very. There was meat on some of the bones. One name. Elliot."

"That man, Elliot Moore, was buried the day I arrived. I drove past the procession," June confirmed. "Two weeks is pretty fresh."

 "Lutheran," Sara, Enos and Patti said at once. 

 "I think it was a rakshasa," Sam continued. "It was small, dark black, fangs."

"Sounds like one," Patti agreed. "June, how's your aim these days?"

"Still gold."

"Excellent. Brass, right, Sam?"

"Yes, but —"

"You're staying here. You'll stay here until you're fit to be up and about and Enos will decide that. Sara, you help Enos keep Sam under control, then take him to Rick's for a proper bite to eat. June and I will dispense of the rakshasa. I'll get the knives and some brass bullets from the safe. Meet me in the car, hon."


	4. Chapter 4

 

"Surely you jest."

"I do not," Raphael responded, sky-blue eyes intent on the panorama below them. From this vantage point, on the top of the highest of the hills that formed an arc around Rages, they could see from The Rustler down Main Street past the abandoned elementary school. In June the government had decided there were no longer enough young children for the state to keep a school open in the town. Since then four more families had left. 

"There," he said, lifting a hand toward the distant edge of Main Street. He kept his gaze forward, his vigilance on the town. "He has been here less than a week. Presently in the bar. Despite the early hour."

"Disgusting little place. You're certain it's Winchester." 

"Absolutely. Have you never seen the boy?"

"No," Ashmedai said, drawing out the word with a sneer. He had chosen his favorite appearance to deal with this particular situation: age for authority; height and build for intimidation; voice and poise for charisma. Luckily he was used to the heat, or the three-piece Armani chosen for wealth and power would be very uncomfortable. 

"He's Azazel’s, not mine."

"Others are interested in him as well. He had a demon following him when he arrived."

"Damn! Whose?"

"Did not bother to inquire. I simply dispensed of her."

"We'll need to act fast then. The brother is being taken care of as we speak."

"I shall acquire the necessary weaponry. It will be ready when he is."

Ashmedai rocked back and forth on the balls of his human feet. He sniffed the breeze and caught the faint trace of jasmine, citrus, sandalwood, vanilla and amber. A perfume he'd recognize anywhere.

Raphael finally turned to face Ashmedai. "There is another issue we need to discuss before we proceed further."

Ashmedai chuckled. "I was wondering when you'd resurrect that. I take it I have you to thank that she's here? In the same place as the Winchester child."

"His presence here is serendipity. I had nothing to do with that. But yes, I guided her here. To keep her safe. She is not, as you believed of the others you have pursued, a reincarnation."

"I am determined to make her mine."

"You show your age with your archaic notions, demon. These days humans choose whom they love." Raphael turned to face Ashmedai. "She will not be part of any bargain. I will see you hanging in the Abyss of Fire for eternity first."

~*~

  


Enos leaned against the wall behind the bar and inhaled deeply. In front of him the hills arcing the town like a horseshoe, with the greens of summer on their trees, provided a semblance of security. A year ago there would have been soccer games, picnics, cows lazing in the pasture. Now they were lucky if they could get enough children to make up two teams. As for the cows — well, he thought, taking another drag — cow tipping was no longer as funny as it was when he was young.

"How you holding up, kid? Doin' like I told you?"

"Fine," Sam answered, back also braced against the bar's outside wall, hands on his knees, eyes intent on the dusty gravel under his boots. "In through the nose, out through the mouth. Happy?" He slowly straightened up and closed his eyes. The violent pounding of the latest vision had subsided to a manageable, painful throb. The projectile vomiting was ebbing into nausea. 

"Uh huh. Keep that bullshit up and your eyes'll soon be brown as mine."

Sam let out a curt chuckle. "Did Patti—"

"Call your friend. Ellen, right?" Enos saw Sam's slight nod, noted that some of color had returned to his face. "Yeah. When I came out they were debating how to off a … what'd you call it?"

"Mannegishi. My dad killed one once."

"Huh," Enos grunted. He dropped his cigarette and ground out the butt. "You been doin' this all your life?"

"Yes," Sam said, finally opening his eyes. "Ugh. Bright."

"Yeah. Sunshine is like that. Explain some stuff to me. All this demon crap means that we have to burn everybody who dies here, like you had me do to Matt Brewer?"

"Not necessarily. But he was destroying his house and was going to hurt his widow."

"Huh. Always specific like that, even the one today?"

"Only sometimes. They're more specific lately. Don't know why."

"Huh. So you get these pics of bad things doin' nasty shit? That and your brother —"

"Dean." Sam drew in a tentative deep breath.

"All your visions include Dean being tortured?"

"In Hell. Yes. Every single one." Sam turned to look at Enos. "You don't have to stay out here with me, you know."

Enos burst into laughter. "My turn to explain something to you. Been through a lot in my life, son. Only two things have ever truly scared me." Enos paused, waited for Sam to take in what he was saying. "One of them sent me out here."

Sam smiled and nodded. "Let's go back inside then."

~*~

  


Dean moved slowly, muscles beginning to cramp in objection. Under bright, glaring lights and an audience of roaring demons, he'd gone a solid five rounds as a punching bag and knew he'd suffered some damage as a result. He ran his good hand down his ribcage and counted only four broken ones this time. Probably no internal damage. No dizziness: little or no head injuries. All in all, a tame session above and now he could enjoy what would pass for a rest with a side of nightmares. 

Letting his fingers guide him, he limped across the length of the Stygian cage he was forced to call home before he lowered himself down onto the coarse, rocky ground and sighed a quiet sigh of relief. He closed his eyes, slowed his breathing, and let his mind wind down so he could go over the litany he'd made into a ritual shortly after he'd been brought here — how long ago? How long ago had his contract been sold and he'd been taken off the meat hooks to become a one-human traveling freak show?

_"They'll burn the humanity out of you."_

Luckily, burning wasn't one of Belial's hobbies. Belial, the present owner of his soul's contract — bought from Lilith with a blood-oath of allegiance — was one of the upper-echelon demons who didn't need to use a meat suit but could assume any form they wanted. Most shed their human-like appearance once they re-entered their provenance of Hell. Here, Belial was a green, roly-poly bastard, with white, amphibian-like eyes and breath like rancid meat. 

With Dean, he was fond of dispensing a "portentous sample" of things to come once the crowds had dispersed. Samples varied, but they all contained a high degree of unmitigated sadism. During the torture, Belial made sure Dean knew exactly what he thought of him, his family and Sam's future. 

Then Dean would be tossed back into his cage and left alone in suffocating and total darkness. There were no lights, no scents, no audience, and only ever one sound:  an unendurable whispering, detailing for him what he'd done wrong, how he had failed his family and friends, how he had destroyed the lives of all those he'd come into contact with. While the voices whispered and swirled around him, the manifestation Hell created of his physical body — laws of nature be damned — would completely heal in time for the torment to begin again. 

Such was his so-called reprieve from the ongoing cycle of public humiliation and private mortification, but he never knew for how long. Time moved differently in Hell than on Earth; that much he did know.

While the body healed, however, his mind didn't necessarily do so. Chalking it up to the cumulative effects of torture, Dean was already losing reminders. He could still recall important facts — so far. That's why he repeated the information, why he had made a mnemonic devotion of his life. But it was getting harder to remember those little details that had made everything special. 

He shivered, pulling his knees closer to his chest. Of all the things in Hell he remembered anticipating, hypothermia wasn't one of them.

"Would it kill you to turn up the friggin' heat?" he said in a hoarse whisper, listening to his voice as it bounced around into oblivion, noting the roughness from disuse. 

He'd spent so long hanging around — literally, and here he wanted to laugh at his own wit, but his ribs still hurt — Lilith's domain screaming for help, screaming for Sam. The last time he'd spoken aloud Belial had decided that he didn't like human voices. Specifically, Dean's voice. 

That had been … 

"Poor thing. You sound so hoarse and miserable," she said, her voice reaching him from behind his echoes. "Guess there were a lot of things you didn't expect, huh?"

Dean rose and peered toward the direction where he thought her voice had originated. He could hear the click of high heels on the floor as she approached. 

"What do you want?" She stood directly in front of him now, he could tell from the overpowering musky odor that wafted in his direction, but he couldn't see her through the darkness. 

"Oh, nothing," she said, running something along the bars opposite where he stood. "Haven't been able to make the shows, but I heard all about them and wanted to see you myself. How are you, Dean Winchester?"

"Just peachy," he retorted. Speaking grated his throat, but he wanted to keep her attention. "You might want to tell the super the heating needs to be fixed."

"Heating? Not in Belial's domain. Shame you couldn't be somewhere in the south, or the west where it's warm. Here all you get is pitch black and bitter cold."

"Yeah, noticed." He listened intently as she strolled around the cage, heard shoes click on the floor and what he hoped were fingernails against the cage's bars. "Did you drop by just to chat or—" 

"I told you. Grapevine is rife with stories. So I came to see for myself." She leaned in but not close enough for him to make out a form. "I hear you're quite the drawing card. Our own little freak show here in Hell. Why, I've even heard tell that you're so popular, Belial is thinking of taking you on the road. 'Come one, come all and see the terrifying Dean Winchester, ex-demon hunter extraordinaire, the boy-king's very own brother. Cower in fear as he threatens you with holy water and rock salt. Watch as he's forced into submission—"

"At least I'm the main attraction."

He heard her laugh. "From what I've learned that is so Dean Winchester, making light of the situation he fears most," she said, her voice lowering. "If Belial gets bored, he'll start taking his boredom out on you. He didn't inherit the title 'King of Hostility'. He earned it."

Dean kept his expression stoic. He'd overheard the whispers among the gawkers who'd come to poke and prod him through the bars. Each lolly-gagging group made bets as to the torment that lay in store for him. "Hanging upside down over pikes of ice while being skinned" was the latest crowd favorite. 

Dean shrugged, trying for nonchalant. "Whatever."

"Surely you can't have resigned yourself already?" He heard her heels move toward the other end of the cage. "Cheer up. There's a change in the stagnant wind."

Dean felt something pierce his thigh.  "The fuck?" 

His limbs began to tingle as a burning sensation coursed up his body. Auras of light danced around in his field of vision as Dean stumbled and collapsed in the middle of the cage. Unable to focus on the dancing orbs of light, he decided to concentrate on breathing through the pain radiating from his ribs. 

"Lucky for you," he heard a voice say, "the winds just became gales." 

Dean's head hit the ground with a thud as the orbs disappeared into the darkness. That night he didn't hear the whispers. Instead, family and friends paraded silently in front of him: his mother, father, Sam's beloved Jess, Bobby, Jo, Ellen, Ash, until bringing up the rear was a worn and emaciated Sam. Each one was a victim to his inability to protect, to keep them safe. Each one cast an accusatory eye over him as he tried to recover from the pain. He lay there, paralyzed, forced to watch, while one after another was pinned onto the stalactites above him. In succession, their stomachs were sliced open and the blood poured to the floor, pooling around him. Flames began to lap at the ceiling, licking at their gaping wounds, finally engulfing their lifeless corpses.

Throughout the macabre spectacle, he'd been unable to utter a sound. He couldn't cry, couldn't ask forgiveness. 

He'd heard nothing, until air began to oscillate in his ear. The shift in pressure drew him to consciousness, and suddenly he could hear what sounded like his heart beating, the blood pounding in his head. Slowly he opened his eyes and looked at the ceiling. The stalactites showed no signs of blood, of fire, no damage.

He pulled himself completely upright, to find that he was no longer in his cell, and  obviously not in Belial's domain. Instead of the dank cold he'd grown used to, Dean could smell fire, sulfur, and traces of a musky perfume. His leg chained to a wall, he was in a dimly lit, windowless room with walls carved out of a dark greyish-green rock. The whole thing was gothically ornate, like a bad horror film, complete with a wall of torture devices. The furniture, what there was, was made of dark, antique wood, the upholstery was red and black.

"Oh, look, it's waking up," a female voice said off to his left. Dean turned to look in her direction. Human in form, complete with an over-generous cleavage that her black leather top showed for maximum effect, she moved closer, her tongue teasing full, crimson lips as she did. Ebony hair flowed in waves past her shoulders.

Dean noticed that as she neared, she looked surreptitiously to her own left. He followed her gaze and saw another female whose dark blonde hair cascaded below her waist. In her right hand, she gripped a scythe. An image popped unbidden into Dean's memory: his brother holding that deadly weapon when he was younger and again when they had looked for their father. 

The blonde blinked quickly, like her daydream had been disturbed. She glanced toward the doorway where a pair of bulky, cloven-hoofed se'irs stood guard, before she looked Dean over.  She said sullenly, "I can't believe _this_ is what the fuss is about." 

"Potent things often come in small packages. You know that," the brunette retorted. It had been her voice he had heard outside his cage. 

The blonde sneered. "You'd know better than I, Lilith." 

Dean felt the hair on his neck stand up and his stomach heave.  He couldn't remember seeing Lilith wear this body before. He stared at the two demons as they moved closer, but became distracted by noise outside the chamber. Scuffling, clanging and muffled voices. 

"Do we know about any others?" Lilith asked, her voice so low Dean could barely make out what she said. "The son? Ormudz?"

"Like Lilith the Elder gives a shit about her son," the blonde complained. "She's not even in Hell. No idea where Ormudz is. Last I heard he was up chasing after some human slut." 

The blonde bent down and grabbed Dean's chin, forcing him to look into her face. Dean looked between Lilith with dark hair and black eyes, to the ash blonde before him with her deep green eyes. He wasn't sure what it was, but something about the blonde left him cold. She let go of his chin and left to sit in one of the antique chairs in the middle of the room.

Lilith approached and looked down. "Hello, Dean Winchester," she said and smiled: bright white surrounded by soft, ruby pillows. Long waves of silky ebony fell beside a heart-shaped face. He could smell her musky perfume and almost taste her skin. 

"Lilith," Dean replied. He swallowed and blinked again, trying to concentrate his vision on her face. Or faces. There seemed to be two of her in front of him.

Both faces pouted. "Not that one, lover boy. The one you met before is an old hag. I'm the younger, sexier one."

"Okay," he answered hesitantly. As he stared into her eyes, he decided he wanted to test her declaration, until she interrupted his mental meanderings.

"That over there is Na'amah. She'll be your hostess in Hell for the next little while. Unless I can convince her to lend you to me."

"Not my decision to make," Na'amah said. "Ask your consort."

"I'm sure I can work something out." Lilith said. She leaned in even closer, her breath a fascination combination of sweetness and musk. Dean inhaled deeply, wanting to soak her in, his vision blurring. 

He was suddenly distracted by loud shouts emerging from beyond the cavern. Cries that sound like cheers of victory. The se'irs moved to the side to allow a tall male demon — still in human form from the waist up, his head capped with hair the color of snow — enter. The females looked around the cavern then nodded curtly. She went to stand directly in front of the entrance.

The snow-haired demon walked over to them, holding the sword, point down. Dean was fascinated by the way it curved a quarter of the way down the blade, the fuller deep and prominent, the outer edge clearly razor sharp. Blood still dripped from the fuller and pooled on the ground. Dean met the male's gaze and felt his heart start to pound and the bile rise again.

"Take him," the demon said to Na'amah. "Do what you want with him, but keep him alive and secure. At the time we agreed upon, I want him delivered to the northern most corner of my lands." 

He started to walk to the door, then abruptly stopped and turned around. 

"One last thing," he snarled. "To fail me is to end up like Belial. We wouldn't want your head on a pike next to his, would we, Mother?"

~*~

  


"Order up," Rick yelled from the kitchen, banging the bell on the counter twice. "So what you're saying is that this’s not 'cause of the electric company but demons?"

"Thanks, man. Been waiting all week for these buffalo wings, ever since you promised 'em" Enos said, taking the plates from Sara. "Looks like Rages is some sort of evil magnet."

"True north for demonic types," Sara added, slapping a stack of napkins between Enos and Pavel.

"And you think my bar should become like a grocery store," Rick asked. He flipped the meat cooking on the gas grill.

"Some people aren't gonna want you to cook for them all the time. Not that I'm complaining, mind you, but families and couples."

"We keep what here? Dairy, meats, chicken, salads 'n' shit?"

"Yeah, sure," Enos said, licking the barbecue sauce off his fingers. "What we need to think about is keeping people safe. Chicken may not be the best idea, ya know, if the power stays off."

"That is why I put in a generator," Pavel added tossing bones onto the plate between them. "The generator for when power goes, how does June put it? 'Snick.' Off. 'Kick.' Generator."

Enos glanced up at Sara and winked. "Gas generator was a stroke of genius. That's why you're the best electrician in town, kid."

"Only," Pavel corrected. "Jim Davis died in that storm week before Sam came here. Remember? Now, only."

"Love you all the more for it," Rick said as he clanged the bell. "Sasquatch's order is up! Hey, anybody seen Ralph lately?"

"Nope," Sara answered. "Not for a couple of days. Can't remember last time that happened."

"Same here. Maybe he's sick or something." Rick turned the radio up, let Johnny Cash tell the whole bar how God was gonna cut them down.

Sara swept past Pavel, smiling to herself, and whispered to him that June had arrived.  She'd made a bet with Patti and Enos that those two would become an item, and it was starting to look like she was going to collect her forty dollars sooner than she had expected. After a beep from his cell phone, Enos rose and left the bar with a shout and a wave. On the opposite end of the room, sequestered in a booth, Sam had spread out his laptop, books and notes. 

Johnny stopped warning and the news announcer began his hourly report.  "Police advise that these packs of dogs are a threat and have advised residents to bring pets inside and stay indoors …" 

Sara placed the plate in front of Sam and looked him over. He'd slowed down on the alcohol, at least in public, and had obviously shaved that morning. He still had dark circles under his weary and bloodshot eyes, but then again, June had called to tell her she'd heard him crying over a vision early in the morning. Even so, he had more color in his face than when he'd collapsed in front of the store. That, and the clothes Patti had laundered for him, turned him into a rather respectable human being. 

Not that she had any business shopping; not with her history. "Steak and salad. Any visions lately?" 

"This morning. Missoula," Sam said looking up from his computer. "Patti knows somebody who could handle it."

"Well, that's good, right?" The shrug he granted her was very unconvincing. "Same vision about your brother?"

"No, different."

Sara frowned. Getting him to volunteer information was like talking to her mostly monosyllabic teenaged cousin, Adam. She looked Sam over again, appreciative that at least he showered regularly. "How so?"

"New place, different than any of the others." Sam pointed at the screen. "That's what I was looking for, and it's nothing I hadn't read already," he said and shook his head. "All roads lead me nowhere, not even to Hell."

She tched and crossed her arms. "Self-destructive behavior. Didn't you take Psych one-oh-one?" 

"He's my brother, Sara. I'll do anything to get him out but instead, I'm chasing my tail, going in circles."

"Look, I'm not going to tell you that your brother isn't suffering," she said, sliding into the booth, "but the more you work yourself up, the less likely you'll ever be able to find the answer you need."

"Right." Sam slammed his laptop closed, causing Sara to wince. He sighed and swiped a hand down his face. "Sorry, you're right. Have any bright ideas for me, then?" 

"Ha! Not me. Ask me about Sumerian military tactics."

"Sumerian military tactics?" he repeated, eyebrow arching up in disbelief.

"What? I said ancient history, didn't I?"

"Yeah," Sam said, shaking his head, chuckling. "But military tactics?"

"You just gave me the same sneer as my family, goddamned bunch of hippy Peace-niks. Look, I'm not working tomorrow. I can help with research if you point me in some sort of direction."

"I've no idea where to point you," Sam admitted.

The door's bell clanged and Sam granted the person who entered a half-hearted smile and a nod. Sara turned and waved before Patti sat down at the table in front of the now-defunct jukebox.

"Maybe Patti will know? I'll go ask her to come over," she suggested. "Together we'll work up a plan or something. After you eat. If I take any of that back to Rick, he'll accuse me of neglecting a customer. Don't you dare put that burden on me."

"Fine, fine, I'll eat," Sam said as the lights spluttered, crackled and then went out. Rick yelled a litany of curses before the generator re-lit half of the bar's lights.

"I told you all," Pavel said to the entire room. "'Snick and kick'."

Sara scooted out of the booth just as the front door opened and she, armed with her most flirtatious grin, headed toward the newcomer. The air that wafted inside behind him was dry and arid, heralding the promise of another scorcher. The man was tall, at least as tall as Enos or Sam, dressed in a navy blue pinstripe suit that drew attention to broad, muscular shoulders. Snow-white hair framed an olive-toned, angular face. Dark, sullen eyes scanned every corner of the bar, but softened when he saw her approach. She'd bet her week's wages that this was his first time in a small town bar.

"Hi. Welcome to Rick's. Would you like a booth, a table or a seat at the bar?" she asked. "Bar's dimly lit for now, but the electricity should kick back in a moment or two."

The man inspected the bar again, paused briefly in Patti's direction then turned his attention back to Sara. His smile almost blinded her: Hollywood-white teeth, uniform in size, not a single one out of line. 

"Normally, I'd sit anywhere you recommend, Sara-Ziseh, but today I'm here to meet negotiate with someone. I'd appreciate it if you'd see to it that we're not disturbed." 

Without waiting for her response, he turned to his left and headed to the booth where Sam ate his lunch. 

Sara took a deep breath and clenched her jaw before moving back to the bar. Her heart pounded loudly in her ears, her skin had grown clammy and her knees felt like jelly. She positioned herself behind the counter so that she could see Sam's reaction to whatever the man told him and call Rick if it looked like he needed help. Glancing around she saw that everyone else, except Sam, was also covertly watching the events.

Sam looked up only when the shadow crossed his table. 

"You're younger than I imagined," the man said. Not pausing for acknowledgement, he slid across the vinyl bench until he sat directly across from Sam. 

"Do I know you?" Sam asked.

"Not yet, but I know all about you." 

"What? How do you know me?" 

"You're not stupid, Sam Winchester. Nor am I. Now, let's talk." 

"If you know all about me, I'm going to assume you're law or a demon," Sam pushed the plate of food aside. "Either way, what makes you think I want to hear what you have to say?" 

"Because it's about your brother." His voice was sonorous and demanded attention. "I can help you get him out of Hell." 

"I've heard that before. It turned out to be a load of bullshit. How's what you're offering any different?"

“Pay close attention," the man said, lowering his voice to a whisper. "Your brother doesn't have time for bullshit. Let me quote as a hint, _Ki elef shanim ke-yom etmol be-eneykha_. It's a slight exaggeration, poets have an annoying passion for hyperbole, but it's close enough. Do the math, Sam. Add, divide and find your aggregate. For you, it's been mere weeks." He shrugged and leaned back. "For Dean…"

"As you've implied, you're a demon. Therefore, I can't trust you."

"Well spotted, boy-king. But let me reiterate: I can help bring your beloved brother out of Hell. Let's begin with this about me: I have an intense, almost innate aversion to lies. If you, Sam Winchester, youngest son of John and Mary Winchester, Chosen heir of Azazel ask, I will tell you the truth." 

"That doesn't tell _me_ who _you_ are." 

"I can see your education is sorely lacking. Can't tell you yet." He paused then leaned forward. "I will tell you that I'm more like you than you think. Now, back to your more immediate concern. Ask me the right questions and I will not lie." 

"Dean is running out of time and still you want me to play games?" Sam goaded. "Fine, I'll play. How am I supposed to get in to Hell?”

The demon leaned his elbows on the table and laced his fingers together. Pointing his index fingers at Sam, he explained. "You and I share a genetic commonality. Neither wholly human nor wholly demon, poised between two worlds. But unlike you, I acknowledge my power, know who I am and my place in the universe. Nevertheless, if you so choose, the way I get in and out is likewise available to you."

"That wasn't helpful. I'm not a demon."

"Not a question, not even rhetorical, but I'll answer anyway," he said and spread his hands wide. "No, you are not. However, demon blood does course through your veins. Next question."

Sam frowned. "What do you get from it?" 

"Ah," the man said and once again leaned back. "For now? Your allegiance, assistance with this matter. Simple as that." His smile was paralyzing. He stole a glance toward the bar. "Tell you what, I'll come back tomorrow, same time, same place." The demon tapped the laptop. "In the meantime, you do your math. Add, divide and find your aggregate. Ask around, see if you can find out who I am. And decide — help Dean or leave him to suffer. He's already been beaten, raped, tormented, just about everything you can name and then some, what's a little more time bound and hanging from the rafters? Until tomorrow, Sam," he said, before he vanished from sight.

Patti crossed the bar, signalling to those at the bar that she would go to Sam alone. She slid into the booth, waited for Sam to look up from the table.

"Sam?" she asked. "Who was that? What'd he say to you?" 

"He said he can help me,” Sam said in a hoarse whisper. "He said Dean's being tortured, raped—" 

"He was obviously a demon. Probably lying." 

"Says he doesn't like lies," Sam said. "I don't know who he was but I know I can't trust him." 

"What does he want from you?" 

"He wants me to figure out who he is," Sam answered. "Tomorrow." 

"He's playing games? Is that all he said?" she asked. 

"Something about doing the math. Add, divide and find an aggregate," Sam said. He scrubbed his face with his hands.

"Fine." Patti said, grabbing Sam's hands. "Tell me exactly what he said. We'll work on this together." 

"He didn't say much, just that he knew all about me, Dean was suffering. He quoted something then said to do the math."

"Do the math, why? What math?" 

“I don’t have time for this,” Sam said, pulling his hands from Patti’s grasp. “Dean doesn’t have time for this.”

"Deep breaths, Sam. You knew that already." Patti's brow furrowed. "You said he quoted something. What did he quote?" 

"No idea. Poetry.” Sam picked up a napkin and wrote down a few words. He slid it across to Patti.

Patti looked at the napkin, folded it and put it in the pocket of her blouse. "Keys and elves. _Lord of the Rings_ isn't helpful. What else'd he say?" 

"He said he was like me," Sam answered. He opened his laptop and began to type. "That he didn't like lies and then he quoted that bullshit. That's it." 

"Like you how?" 

Sam glanced up then returned his attention to the screen. "He's part human. Maybe once human. But raised to be what he is, he said." 

"This has something to do with you and Azazel?"

Sam looked at her, eyes wide in surprise. "Bobby told you?"

"What he knew, yes. Now, we know some demons started off as humans, but to actually be part human? That's different. Narrows the field a bit."

"Sam, Patti," Sara interrupted, standing at the edge of the table. "Who was that guy?" 

"A demon, not sure who yet, " Patti answered.

"Well," Sara started. "Keep him the fuck away from me. He was slimy. I could feel his eyes taking my clothes off. And he knew me. Called me by my Hebrew name. How could he know that?"

Sam stopped typing and stared up at her. "Your Hebrew name?"

"Well, just the first part. But no one knows that except my family. How did he know it?"

"I don't know, Sara," Patti said. "For now, Sam, we need to figure out who he is and how what he said refers to Dean." She looked back at Sara. "All that might help us figure out how he knows you."

"It wasn't English," Sam said. His eyes felt as if they were beginning to swell, as an immense and all-too-familiar pressure built behind them. He took in a deep breath and tried to stave off the vision. Just a little while longer; let him deal with this first. “Wasn’t Latin either. I'm not getting anything, damn it.”

"Could it have been Hebrew?" Sara asked quietly. "Or something even older?"

Patti pulled out the napkin and handed it to Sara. Sara read it furrowed her brows and smiled. "This is all you got? ‘Key’ and ‘el—‘ Wait. It sounds familiar. I just can’t put my finger on it."  She pulled her cell phone out of her pants' pocket. "Let me ask my brother. He should be up for morning prayers. He might have an idea. I'll get back to you." She walked out of the restaurant while tapping the number on her phone.

"Sam," Patti said, grabbing on to the hand that wasn’t pressing against the bridge of his nose. "I'm going to go back to my office and see if we can figure out who this demon is. Or at least narrow down the field. You, in the meantime, wait until Sara comes back with an answer.”

"That's—"

"Sam, that's both an order and common sense. Don't leave until Sara comes back with an answer or lack of an answer. Then you can come to my place, we’ll pour over the books, and figure out our next move."

"My—"

" _Our_ next move," Patti repeated. "You're not in this alone, Sam. Haven't you figured that out yet? Are we going to deal with this vision or not?”

Sam ground the heel of his hand into his forehead. “I’m fine. Not as bad as some. But it’s still fucking painful.”

“I can see that, son. Do you want me to flag down Enos?”

“No,” Sam grunted. “Looks like I have to learn to handle this. Thought … it was over …when Dean shot—”

“Obviously not. Maybe, you should do some of the stuff people do for migraines,” Patti suggested. “Don’t waste your energy fighting it, just work on slow, deep breathing, yeah? Then we’ll get the information to Bobby and go back to helping Dean. I’ll sit here and wait.” 

Sam slowed his breathing, hitching whenever the pain crested. “Keep talking Patti. It helps.”

Patti chuckled softly. “Never heard that line before, and I was married a long time. Got any images for me?”

“Yes,” Sam said, letting out a long, slow hiss. “There’s a group of demons masquerading as humans. One looked a lot like June, but different hair color. Scared, like it was running from something.”

“How’d you know it was a demon?”

Sam stopped to grab his cup of coffee, hands trembling as he lifted the mug. “Saw its face before it turned into almost-June.”  He took a gulp then on Patti’s look of patient curiosity, continued, “I saw Dean in chains, in pain, bleeding, on a stone floor. Then there was a funeral, this demon thing was there, somewhere near the ocean, looked like New England, the beach was rocky, not like California. Then it changed and there was a desert with red sand dunes and blinding sunlight. That demon who was just here was there. And a dragon.”

Sara slid into the booth and put the napkin on the table. “Okay, back. Sam, you okay? Vision?”

“Yes, you just missed the show.”

“Right," Patti interrupted. "June-lookalike demons, at funerals, Dean still in strife and our guest demon in a red desert where there are dragons. Nothing to send anyone out for. How’re you now?” she asked.

“Now? I think I need those painkillers Doc recommended. Or alcohol. Or both,” Sam answered. He glanced at the napkin Sara had placed on the table. “What’d your brother say, Sara? Your handwriting is indecipherable.”

Sara smacked Sam on the arm. “My handwriting is normally a work of art, smart ass, but since your courtesy was pushed aside for a vision, I’ll tell you. The quote is actually ‘ _Ki elef shanim ke-yom etmol be-eneykha’_ , Psalm 90:4 which in English is something like ‘A thousand years are equal to a yesterday in your eyes.’ Aaron — he demanded an explanation, that's why I took so long — said we’re dealing with extremely dangerous beings, we need to be careful, and he’ll help. He’ll call back in a bit with your equation. He’s studying with an expert in _gematria_ , mystical numerology. Wait. Did you say something about red sand? And a dragon?"

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. "Yeah, why?"

"Oh, um, no reason. Fact gathering."

While Sam tried to fight the headache, Patti watched Sara's expression change from curious to frightened as she looked at everyone in the bar but those sitting in the booth. Her breathing came out in short bursts and she started to chew on the inside of her cheek. "Sara, everything all right? Do you know something?"

Sara's head whipped around when she registered the questions. Both Sam and Patti were now staring at her, waiting for an answer. Slowly she forced her mouth to stretch into what she hoped was a reassuring smile. "Everything's fine. You two should go do some research or something. I'll wait for my brother's call and then pass on the information." 

She slid out of the booth then turned back to look at Sam. "I know that if I were in your shoes and Aaron was being tortured like Dean, I'd do _anything_ I could to relieve him of that suffering. I just wanted you to know that, Sam. That I understand." With a curt nod, she turned and raced out of the bar.

"What the Hell was that about?" Patti asked.


	5. Chapter 5

 

Ashmedai revealed himself atop the crescent of the highest star dune in the far north corner of his quadrant of Hell. He looked up, expectantly, then felt her thread her arm through the crook of his. "It's in place?" he asked.

“She didn’t share,” Lilith the Younger, her lower lip jutting out into a pout.

“Now, Lilith. You have more than your portion of live humans to torture,” Ashmedai responded, keeping his eyes focussed on the outskirts of a ruined city that lay on the desert’s edge.

“But this one is so pretty. I wanted a taste.” Lilith sighed dramatically. “Afrin has returned from above, looking like Ormudz’s sacrificial lamb—“

“I thought she got away.”

“She did, disappeared, but with daddy’s untimely demise, apparently at the hands of Queen Bitch’s son, it was easy for the shifter to find pictures and mimic her. Ormudz is in a tailspin, chasing after all sightings of his lamb. Mission accomplished, Afrin is on her way now to take up her role in the city.”

“Good. Queen Igrat is on board?”

“Yes. Relishing the chance to start another catfight with Lilith. I’ve loosed tormenters inside the city. They await their bait.”

“Hmm. Not too many, I hope?” On Lilith’s shake of her head, the ebony hair swaying in waves across her shoulders, Ashmedai smiled and gestured toward the horizon. “Players one and two have arrived,” he announced as a shadow crossed over the dune, dipping and spinning in a graceful acrobatic display. 

A moment of disappointment seized Ashmedai until he realized that the dragon flying over him was not spying or hunting prey, but showing off, its eyes narrowing as it homed in on her owner.  

"Tanin! Get back here now!" he directed.

The dragon returned and gracefully, despite its enormous bulk, landed on the northern slip face of the dune. Multi-faceted eyes twinkled in anticipation. Ashmedai waited until the second figure clambered over the last dune to his west, then tapped the dragon affectionately on its nose.

“Get a parasang behind me," he ordered, returning his gaze to the horizon. "Down below the line of vision. Fly only when I give the signal. Understand?"

The dragon emitted a chirp-like bark, its eyes sparkling in anticipation. Ashmedai turned and squinted menacingly. The dragon closed its eyes and flattened itself against the dune. "And for fuck's sake stop purring, you ignorant Saurian." He turned to greet the newcomer. "And now to you.”

The second figure stood an arm’s length from Lilith and Ashmedai and waited approval. He appeared to be a thin man in his late twenties, light brown hair in a manic state of disarray, aquiline nose, full but chapped lips, piercing blue eyes. He waited while Lilith ran her eyes over him then turned to her consort with a cock of her eyebrow.

“Who the Hell did you model yourself after, Katsimon?” Ashmedai asked. “Mick Jagger?” 

The demon immediately transformed into a clone of the singer. Lilith chuckled. Katsimon then manipulated his features to grow taller, broader shoulders, more defined musculature; his nose grew pointier, eyes turned hazel and smaller, and his hair grew straight and longer. 

“Save that persona for later. Go back the way you were. Make the hair darker, and lose some weight. You need to look desperate and terrified.” He waited while the air around the minor demon shimmered and his image changed yet again. Ashmedai nodded curtly when the alterations were complete. “You know your instructions?”

Katsimon nodded and smiled, showing a set of decaying yellow teeth. He crouched down into the red sand.

“Time to leave, Lilith. Make sure Ormudz is occupied until it the moment is ripe,” Ashmedai instructed as Lilith disappeared from sight.

Ashmedai looked once more at the blinding sun, then smirked. He felt the oscillation of the air around him before the gaunt human was dropped onto the dune next to Katsimon. Ribs sticking in relief against paper-thin, translucent skin, the newcomer stared at his surroundings in a mixture of fear and curiosity. Beside him stood two imps, each pulling a length of iron chain. Ashmedai waited until green eyes looked up into his.

“Welcome to my little quadrant of Hell, Dean Winchester.”

~*~

 

Sara collapsed on the couch and stared at the Blackberry on the walnut coffee table. Sandwiched between back issues of _National Geographic_ and books she had dragged across the country, it looked like a chunk of obsidian weighing down the evidence, holding it all together.

Getting the source of the quote was easy; Sam had remembered enough to have Aaron chuckling at the fact she didn’t recognize it. Then, suddenly and sharply, her brother had demanded the truth. Cutting off her quote from _A Few Good Men,_ he’d said experts had warned him that there were “signs” that she was caught in the middle of something horrific. So much for her “up-and-coming Stephen King” lie. She’d bitten back a curt laugh when he told her that her life was in danger and that moving to South Dakota was the pinnacle of idiocy.

She’d told him everything she knew about Sam, about Dean, about June. “On one foot” as their teachers would’ve said, but when he didn’t immediately respond with a swipe at her sanity, she had a gut feeling. Softly, just above a whisper, Aaron said he’d look into the numerology and that he was also going to send her some texts — mostly ancient but some lore — that she needed to look at.

Back inside the bar, things had started to fall into place: the demon’s appearance; his intense scrutiny of her; quoting Psalms; red sands; and the dragon. While waiting for her brother to send the information he’d promised, she’d written up a list of every boy/man she’d been seriously involved with since the ninth grade. Every single one had died, with the exception of David, who had simply disappeared their sophomore year during spring break.

Then Aaron had sent the scanned texts, highlighting those passages he wanted her to pay close attention to. Proof, in his mind, of which demon was taunting them and why. Sara read the texts, and Aaron’s translations when she needed them, over and over, feeling the fever rise and the bile push up from her stomach.

Sipping on her 7-Up, she took a deep breath and dialled her cell phone. Just before she hung up, it was answered.

“Patti?” Sara said, trying to sound more confident and composed than she felt. “My brother sent the figures … No, I’d rather tell you … Okay, but not the calculations. They do my head in. Each day is equal to just over a year, almost thirteen months. That means … yes. He’s been there just shy of a century.”

Sara hung up the cell phone, tossed it back on to the printouts and ran into the bathroom, hoping she’d make it on time.

~*~

 

Ashmedai looked pointedly at Dean, whose chains had been removed and who now crouched at his feet unusually silent (so he had heard from his mother), then at the human form next to Dean. 

“It appears your sojourns in Hell has begun to deplete your souls. Your ribs are showing, and not in a good way, your cheekbones are very pronounced and those scapulas could cut a person. Luckily your physical body isn’t real, just a manifestation of your soul. All the torture these past decades, that would truly hurt if your body was real. Now to explain how your stay in my kingdom will work. Silence as a virtue I can see you've both already learned. Although with Winchester it took a spell to achieve that goal. Don’t worry,” Ashmedai lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “Naamah’s spell will wear off in due time. Next lesson. In front of you, across the desert lies a city, the City of Lost Souls. There you can find shelter of a sort, but only if you make it past the Abyss of Despair. It’s about a three day trek from here, but if you run, you can make it in two.” His voice rose a decibel. “However, today is Tuesday which means it’s hunting day for my dragon. Oh, and there are imps along the way who are likewise starving for human souls. You,” Ashmedai said and snapped his fingers to Dean's right. “Run and we’ll see how far you get before I send this one after you.”

Katsimon leaped up, and after a cursory glance at Dean, broke into a sprint down the dune. He ran, stumbling from time to time, scrabbling up the next dune. Ashmedai waited, watched as Dean studied the runner while surreptitiously keeping an eye on his surroundings. He felt a fleeting and annoying pang of regret that he wouldn’t have much time to toy with the hunter: The chases they could have in the city, all reminiscent of the terror he had put Dean’s father during  his time there, before that other human brat had opened the Devil’s Gate and the senior Winchester had climbed over half of Hell to escape.

He crossed his hands behind his back, rolled back on his heels, then looked down at Dean. “Stand up! You can hardly learn where to travel if you can’t see past the nearest dune, can you?”

Dean stood, hesitantly, and turned his attention forward. Already climbing up his third dune, the other seemed to be making good time when suddenly, with a piercing screech, a dragon flew past and swooped down. It snatched the runner in its beak then turned to the east, away from the setting sun.

“Oops.” Ashmedai leaned forward and whispered, "Now it's your turn. Make it into the city and your soul might  find refuge. But be alert. Tanin, my dragon, is just one of many dangers waiting for you.”

He pushed Dean down the dune and yelled, "Run, rabbit, run!" as Dean fled across the burning desert.

~*~

 

Following faithfully the lifelong lessons drilled into him by Dean and his father, Sam placed himself in the same booth — back to the wall, facing the front door — while the others scattered themselves haphazardly across the room. Pavel and June were seated at a table in front of the now officially defunct jukebox. June picked absently at her fingernails while shifting her gaze between her cell phone and the salad Rick had begrudgingly made for her.  Pavel was trying to soothe her nerves, patting her hands and leaning forward to speak in hushed tones.

Rick was in the kitchen, singing off-key with Roy Orbison as the radio blared from its spot the counter next to the register. Enos had seated himself on his regular barstool and was deep in discussion with Tammy about her mother’s health since she’d moved to Sioux Falls for treatment of “black lung”. Tammy was questioning the diagnosis, having Googled it, and was drilling the corpsman on the likelihood of coal dust in the water. Enos was doing his best to keep a straight face, while reassuring Tammy that if they were all going to die, it wouldn’t be from coal miner’s lung disease.

Patti sat to Sam’s left, at a table under a neon Miller’s sign, writing a letter on scented stationery. Even from two tables away, and in the humid, stagnant air of the bar, Sam could smell the light perfume of the purple paper. Patti’s concentration seemed focussed on the letter, but Sam knew that she was paying very close attention to everything around her. The same way she’d watched him and Dean in Blue Earth, he recalled. No matter what they’d planned, and Dean had devised some intricate rendezvous plans that year, she would always show up just as they were heading for a door. He remembered that he had spent most of that summer either storming off in frustration or studying Latin out of sheer boredom.

The weatherman warned of a dropping system and the rains that were going to follow in the early evening, cautioning listeners to stay out of the high heat and humidity in the meantime, and when the forecasted deluge hit, to drive carefully. The fans that Rick and Tammy had set up in the bar were doing nothing to circulate the heavy air, and Sam could feel the sweat pooling under his shirt. He wiped his brow with a napkin and exhaled deeply. 

In front of him, on the table where Tammy and Jim had declared their undying love with a Swiss Army knife, lay the list of demons they had compiled overnight and shortened over their ritual morning coffee. Enos had suggested eliminating the Eastern demons, since he felt they’d not waste their time quoting Biblical honorifics. They all agreed it would have been helpful to have Sara’s input on the list, but according to June, Sara had stopped answering her cell phone after she delivered the figures to Patti and was unreachable. 

Pavel and Enos had planned, with military precision, who would be where in the bar. They had assigned everyone a detailed role, including Rick and Tammy. With Sam’s and Patti’s arsenals at their disposal, they would all be as prepared as possible, given the mass of unknowns, in the event  something went wrong.

In the event Sam guessed wrong. 

He took another quick glance at the short-list just as the lights flickered and the electricity turned off. The door opened, bringing with it a blast of scorching, dry air. The demon, wearing the same human guise but dressed in a two-piece charcoal gray business suit, strode in and flipped his hand casually. The power came back on, fans whirled to life and Charlie Daniels began to croon.

Sam slid the piece of paper under the table before it could be spotted. He tried to slow his racing pulse and calm his erratic breathing but felt sure that he was succeeding at neither.

Sliding effortlessly into the booth, the demon glanced at Patti then nodded in greeting to Sam. “Did you figure out how long Dean has been with us?"

"Yes," Sam said through clenched teeth. "He's been in Hell for almost a century, if what you say is the truth.” He waited a heartbeat then made a decision. “Asmodeus.”

“Oh, Latin. Not sure I like it, not sure I ever did," Ashmedai said. “I prefer Aeshma or Ashmedai,but congratulations. And now you'll have my assistance with your brother.”

"How do I know he's safe?"

Safe?” Ashmedai blinked then frowned. "You don't. All you know is that I have control of his … situation.”

"Let's go get him, then."

Ashmedai barked a short laugh. "Not on your life. You're not ready to bust into Hell. You're too raw, too—"

"He's been tortured by you for years."

"Not by me. I haven't touched him. Not sure I will. Too skinny.”

"Then who?"

"Not your concern anymore. I've taken care of that.” He leaned forward, his voice low. Heat radiated off his body, like blasts from a furnace. “For the moment no one knows exactly who has Dean; just that his previous owner has met an untimely and violent demise. Soon it will get around that it is I who has your brother. But if I ignore him, if I do not treat him as I do the other humans in my domain, it will become quite evident why I did what I did and the race to abscond with him will heat up. Then you will never find your brother in time. If at all."

“What do you propose, then?”

“A deal—“

Sam shook his head. “I won’t make a deal with a demon. I —“

“You,” Ashmedai interrupted. “Are an idiot. Do I look like that queen bitch Lilith? I am not asking for your pathetic human soul. Beyond what I will demand of you, you do not interest me. However, let me make this very clear. We want your brother out of Lilith the Elder and Samael’s reach. If you do not make this deal with me, he will be still be taken out of Hell. You say he’s been with us almost a century? Rumor has it you’ve witnessed, through a gift from Azazel, some of what he’s been through. He’s been in my domain for how many years now? In my city where souls are tormented and hunted on a regular basis until they can withstand it no longer and either join us or …” He waited while Sam took in his threat. “If you do not agree to this deal, to rescue Dean, Samuel Winchester, I will give the command to plague him until he jumps into the Abyss of Despair. And, to be honest, it will not take much more.”

Ashmedai leaned back against the vinyl and watched the panic rise.

~*~

 

Sara watched as the lights flickered and then sputtered back to life. Wrapped in a blanket, huddled in the bathtub, she knew that Sam was negotiating for the return of his brother. From what he had told her, Dean was not only all he had left of a family, but his best friend. And to be witness to such torment? She knew that he would agree to whatever deal was on offer.  She’d make the deal, why wouldn’t he?

And when he did, she knew it was the beginning of her end.

~*~

 

Ashmedai arched an eyebrow. “Well, boy-king?”

“What do you get out of it?” Sam asked, wiping his sweaty hands on his jeans. He noticed that Rick and Enos had stepped out through the kitchen to guard the backdoor.

“I told you. Your obnoxious brother out of Hell.”

“And that’s it?” Sam asked, his eyes narrowing in disbelief. “That’s all you want in return.”

Ashmedai grinned. “There are other perks to this deal, but they will wait until you have what you want.”

“No, all the terms laid out now, or I don’t agree,” Sam said. “I want this negotiation to be clear. You said you don’t lie, that if I ask you, you’ll answer honestly.”

“Fine,” Ashmedai said and shrugged. “I’ll get what I want in the end anyway, so ask.”

“What exactly are you giving me besides Dean. You won’t just hand him over. So what do I have to do?”

“You have to train to use those talents bequeathed to you by Azazel, the demon-king whom your brother assassinated. Premonitions, which you can’t control, are just the beginning.”

“I have no other ‘talents’, as you call them. How can I be trained in things I don’t possess?”

“Holy Hell,” Ashmedai said, smacking his hands on the table. “No wonder you’re his successor. You’re a fucking goat like he was. Meh, meh, meh. You have demon blood coursing through you, you imp! Visions are just one of his gifts. Each of you blood drinkers had more than one talent. That’s why he had you corralled in that shit hole — to fight out who was superior. Think about it! Telekinesis? You mean you can’t move things? What about mind control? Hypnotic suggestion? Demonic control — okay, that one everyone of your rank gets eventually. That and _kfitsat ha-derekh_. Is any of this ringing a bell, human?”

Sam stared at Ashmedai. “You’re going to train me in those?”

“Not I personally, but I have someone who will.”

“What’s the last one? _Kefits_ —“

“ _Kfitsat ha-derekh_ , the way you’ll eventually get in through the out door: teleportation. We will train you to use that. And the weapon you’ll need when you get there. Have I your attention now, boy-king?”

“So you and your lackey’ll train me. Where?”

“In Cold Oak. That’s what Azazel set it up for, a training ground.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam saw Patti shake her head. “No, I’m not an idiot,” he said. “I train here. In Rages.”

“I take it you agree, then?” On Sam’s curt nod, Ashmedai steepled his fingers together and pointed at him. “Fine, then I’ll capitulate on that one. Any other demands?”

“What else exactly do you think I’ll give you from this deal besides Dean out of Hell?” Sam asked through clenched teeth.

“Excellent. First,” the demon said, smiling and lifting a forefinger, “you’ll have control of your demonic powers, which will forever set you apart from humanity.” He lifted a second finger. “You will be forever grateful to me and those who worked with you to bring big brother back to you. Which also means you will forever be targeted by Lilith the Elder, Samael and those who side with them.” Ashmedai leaned forward and lifted his third finger. “And lastly, you’ve already given me access to the one thing here I desire most.”

“Which is what?” Sam asked, leaning back away from the demon.

“Not what, who. Sara-Ziseh bat Tovah-Malkah Benzohar. When this is over, she will come with me.”

~*~

 

“Door’s locked,” Pavel said, fruitlessly twisting the knob in his hand. “Why has she locked the door?”

“Habit, growing up in the city,” June answered. She went to the far side of the front window and peeked into the house, scanning the living room through the lacy sheers. She cupped a hand over her eyes to shield them from the sun and noticed Sam opening a Swiss army knife as he slowly climbed the stairs. After a thorough inspection, she turned and faced the group now assembled on the porch of Sara’s house. 

“Won’t help, Sam. She’s braced the door with a chair.” 

“I’ll check the back,” Enos volunteered, running down the stairs and around the house.

“There are no break-ins or problems in town,” Pavel said. “Maybe she also ran to here from someone.”

Patti sighed. “Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of.”

“Wouldn’t she have said something or hinted at it long before today?” Sam asked. He walked past June to inspect the windows with his knife. 

“She would’ve said something when she found out about Ormudz, I’d think,” Patti said.

“Can’t open those windows, either,” June said. “The previous owners painted over them. Sara opens smaller ones for air, because she says the breeze never comes that way. Right, so…” She put her hands on her hips. “Never mind that she’s turned her phone off, although I can see it on a book on the coffee table. That she was supposed to meet us for coffee this morning like she always does and didn’t show. That if she were hiding she’d draw the drapes but they’re open.The real questions, now, are why has she secured her house like this and is she hurt or sick?”

“She knows,” Sam said quietly. 

“How?” June asked, her voice rising to a shriek. “You and Patti told us on the walk over here. How’d she find out?” Sam simply shrugged while Patti sighed again. “What if he’s there already? He can pop in and out of anywhere! What if she’s hurt? If he’s anything like Ormudz—”

“June,” Patti said, coming to stand by June’s side and put an arm around her shoulders. “We’ll get in and find out she’s fine. Probably in her bedroom watching some stupid movie and fell asleep.”

Heads turned in unison as they heard the crash of glass from inside the house, followed by the thump of something heavy. Patti tilted her head, and put a hand up to signal patience when the front door opened. 

“Back door was blocked, too, so I’m assuming she’s inside,” Enos announced. “I broke the window, tossed the chair.  Looks like she hasn’t eaten since last night. Not answering my calls. That’s all I can tell.”

“I’ll fix the window later,” Pavel offered. “Maybe now we just find her, yes?”

“I would’ve suggested we be stealthy,” Patti said then smirked at Enos. “But I think that idea’s a goner, hey? June and I’ll hunt her down while you guys guard the place and Sam, maybe figure out what she knows?” 

“She’ll need something to calm her if she knows,” Enos said. “Kid hates tea, so I’ll make coffee. Maybe spike it.”

Patti and June followed Enos into the house, decorated in muted golds and dark browns, and headed through the living room down the hallway toward the three bedrooms, calling out quietly for Sara as they moved. Patti signalled to June to move toward the bedrooms on the left, and that she’d take the main bathroom and master bedroom. 

“What do we do if _he_ is in here?” Pavel asked, taking his self-appointed post by the front door. “The holy water? Shoot him? What?”

“Don’t think any of that will help,” Sam said, walking around the coffee table, eyeing the scattered papers and stacks of books. “He’s as old as Lilith, the demon that took my brother and none of that worked.” He sat on the mustard-colored couch and began to skim Sara’s notes that she had scattered across the walnut coffee table. The first one was a list of ten names, five of which had dates after their name. “Ronny” was the last on the list.

Two doors closed in the hallway and another two opened. Broken glass was poured into a plastic bin in the kitchen, while a coffee maker hissed and began to drip into its carafe.

~*~

 

Ashmedai surveyed the demons standing before him in the courtyard of his mountaintop palace and, after a nod to Lilith the Younger, smiled. 

"You all have your instructions. Those of you who are to be in the City, assume your identities before you go. We have promised Winchester his brother, and we will deliver on that promise. I made no mention of what mental state he will be in. Trail, tease, torment. When I deliver him, I want him ready to snap." 

Four demons prostrated themselves and left the courtyard. Ashmedai turned to his left. 

"Kipod, you have your instructions. We are on a deadline, so make sure the boy-king trains well. He must be at _kfitsat ha-derekh_ by the allotted time. Kinor will guard your gate at those times you are above. Imamyah will meet him at the gate and direct him to where we will have arranged for big brother to be, shall we say, detained? Baal is above seeking out our final tormentor, who will be holding Dean Winchester. If he succeeds, on the morning of next Sunday, Azazel’s murderer will be delivered out of Hell. If he does not succeed, Mashit will force Dean Winchester into the Abyss of Despair. Either way, Samael and Lilith's plans will be averted. And we shall remain rulers in Hell."

Ashmedai turned and, with his consort by his side, left the courtyard.

~*~

 

“So we do nothing?” Pavel asked. He watched Sam lift each piece of paper, examine it and place it back on the table. The books, all looking to be on history and as old as any in Patti’s store, were pushed aside as Sam opened Sara’s computer. The laptop whirred to life and the light cast an eerie glow on Sam’s face. 

“Should you be looking at her computer?” Pavel asked.

“Can’t read her handwriting,” Sam admitted. “This might help. Once I crack her password.”

Another door closed. Pavel leaned to look down the hallway, then turned back to Sam. “Well?”

“She has a lot of documents open. All scans. Some texts, others look like maps or blueprints,” Sam said. He leaned over and brushed a few pieces of paper aside then pulled one out. He looked at it, at the laptop, then put the piece of paper on the couch next to him. Pavel watched as Sam did this a few more times, as if he were piecing together a puzzle, before finally looking up. 

“It looks like they’re maps,” Sam explained. “But I don’t understand the writing. Probably ancient Hebrew.”

“It would make sense,” Pavel said. “Her brother, he is learning in Israel. To be a rabbi, I think.” 

“She did say something about that,” Sam agreed.

“Right,” Enos said, joining them in the living room. “Coffee’s on. What’d you and the big bad agree on? Besides Sara as end payment.”

Sam’s shoulders slumped at the tone of the older man’s voice. “He’ll send someone to start training me in what I need to know tomorrow. We train from dawn until dusk.”

“Huh,” Enos answered. “Who’s he sending? He say?”

Sam shook his head. “He said his name was Kipod, but nothing more. He would meet me in the playing field behind Rick’s.” He glanced up at Enos. “Look, Enos, I—”

“Save it, kid. Seems to me he has you by the short hairs. To get what he wants all he has to do is yank. And I reckon your crotch hurts pretty bad right about now.”

“Guys,” June said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Patti found Sara in the back bathroom.” She put a hand up. “She fine but not talking. Patti wants Sam to speak to her, see if he can get her to at least come out of there.”

Sam nodded and closed Sara’s laptop. He stood, knees cracking loudly in the awkward quiet of the room, and trudged down the hall. He opened a door and entered a very feminine bedroom — all lace and pastels in contrast to the living room’s woodsy colors and heavy wooden furniture. He stopped when Patti stepped out of a doorway into the room.

“She won’t speak, won’t look at me. Your job,” Patti poked Sam in the chest, “is to get her to join us in the front room. We cannot do this if she’s going to go _Girl, Interrupted_ on us. Got it?”

“Give it my best shot,” Sam said.

“Do better than that,” Patti said in return then raised her voice. “You have ten minutes to get her skinny ass out of that tiny room and meet us in the living room. We figure this out, together, and with everybody working with all cylinders firing. Got it?” She winked at Sam and left the bedroom, closing the door behind her.

Sam stood in the doorway, eyeing the en suite before he ventured in. With barely enough room for a child to turn around, let alone for him to lean comfortably, he was going to have to sit on either the sink’s counter or the toilet. Either way, it was likely his knees would hit Sara in the face if she were to move her head.

He chose the toilet. Sara was nestled in the bathtub, wrapped in a purple blanket, her knees drawn up to her chest and her head resting against the pale pink tiles. Her eyes were puffy and red, dark circles underneath. The only sound she made besides soft, hitching breaths was the occasional sniff that he wasn’t sure wasn’t done for dramatic emphasis. Sam sat there, resting his forearms on his legs, composing his thoughts. His mind ran over a myriad of things he could say to her, excuses he could make, and tossed each one out as pathetic. He’d been tricked into putting her future in the hands of a demon, and he knew she knew. 

“Whatever happens, listen to Patti, Sara,” Sam said. “She understands what we’re up against.”

Sara pulled the blanket around her shoulders tighter. After a heavy sigh she replied, “Bullshit.”

“She’s been hunting a long time.”

“Like that makes a difference.”

“Sara—“

Finally she opened her eyes. “So the figures I gave you were in the right ballpark?”

“They were exact.”

“Thought they would be. Aaron’s research is always thorough.” Sara wiped her nose on the blanket’s edge and closed her eyes again. “At what point in the negotiations did I come up?”

“Sara—“

“Don’t make me call bullshit again. You did make the deal, didn’t you?”

“I—“

Sara turned in the small bathtub to look at him, her eyes narrow, her expression tense. “Not stupid, Sam. We both know that this is the only chance you’ve got to get Dean out.”

Sam nodded and looked down at his hands. “I did, yes.” He sighed. “When did you figure it out?”

“Aaron had a theory about me and some other women named Sara, but I told him it’s just so fucking ludicrous. Thanks, you just proved his theory.”

“He pulled it out of thin air, Sara,” Sam started then stopped when he saw she was crying again. He waited a moment then stood. “Ashmedai won’t get you. You’re not a prize to be bargained for. I’ll find a way to get out of that clause.”

“Yeah, right,” she snorted.  “Ashmedai tricked King Solomon into giving up his throne. Now you’re saying you’re smarter than King Solomon? If so, you hide it pretty damned well. So, genius, how’re you going outsmart him?”

“I don’t know, but I promise, he will not collect on that part of the deal.” He started toward the door then stopped. “Come out to the living room. Enos made coffee, and everyone’s worried.”

“If I don’t, you people will keep coming into my bathroom, right?”

“Yes,” Sam said, knowing her arguments now would be without guile. “Probably Pavel next. We’ll save Enos to threaten you last.” 

Walking back into the living room, Sam tried to collate the facts as he knew them, figure out what was missing and how they could fill those blanks. He came in to find Patti and Enos pouring over the papers he had arranged on the couch and comparing them with handwritten notes.

“Maps,” Patti declared. “From the looks of it, sourced from various ancient manuscripts. This one,” she held up one that was divided into four quarters with pictograms in each quarter. “This one tells you who runs, for lack of a better word, each of the four quadrants of Hell and what the conditions are like there.” She pointed to each of the four sections. “Not sure who goes where, Sara can tell us probably, but here is fire, ice, a different fire and darkness. Samael must be one of these. Ashmedai another.”

“I figure he’s one of the fire ones,” Enos said, thumbing through one of the books. “Always blows hot when he comes ‘round. These are Apocrypha, folklore and military histories. Studied some of these in college.”

“She’s a historian,” Sam explained. “Maybe the apocryphal ones will help find a weakness with Ashmedai. Where’d June and Pavel go?”

“June decided she’s moving in here to watch over Sara,” Enos explained. “We agreed that it would be easier to protect her. That and —”

“Arguing with June will get you as far as arguing with Sara,” Patti finished. “Peas in a pod those two. Come to think of it, you should move in here as well, Sam.”

“What?” Sam asked. “Why?”

Enos looked at Patti and tapped his head. She snickered and said, “They don’t have cooties, son. You moving in here does two things: give us someone with firepower to keep an eye on them both and gets you out of that damned motel, where, by the way, you will now be isolated and unprotected.”

“If this is going ahead, I need two promises from you, Sam,” Sara announced, appearing suddenly in the hallway.

“Okay,” he answered, drawing the word out. “What?”

“First, you do not renege because of me, hear?”

Sam nodded curtly. “Done. Second?”

“You find a way to keep me away from Ashmedai.”

“I already said that.” He pointed at her and arched an eyebrow. “You need to listen.”

“No, since you’re apparently moving into my third bedroom, you need to listen, Sasquatch.” Sara sniffed loudly and wiped her nose on the blanket. “If Ashmedai ‘wins’ me, as you put it, I’ll tell him we were lovers and that you asked me to marry you. Look that up in the _Book of Tobias_ that’s in Enos’s hands and see what happens.” 


	6. Chapter 6

 

June adjusted her sunglasses after she put the carafe of coffee on the table. Smoothing her ponytail nervously, she glanced around the empty street toward Rick’s, noticing that none of the stores were open except Patti’s. As if everyone knew something strange — stranger, to be exact — was going on. Patti followed her outside with a tray laden with milk, mugs and muffins. She placed the tray in the middle of the table then dragged a chair out from under the table to sit down.

“How are you?” Patti asked Sara who was staring unseeingly toward the abandoned hotel, The Rustler, at the far end of town. “Sara?”

Sara blinked and refocussed. “Okay, I guess. Considering.” She accepted the mug of coffee June was holding out for her and said, “I don’t know who you coped … cope. Sure, I want to know, but I kind of don’t, you know? Anyway, just wanted to say thanks for being there, and uh, moving in. It does help. Really.”

June smiled meekly and shrugged. “Motel was getting tiresome. And since you have an oven, I won’t have to borrow Rick’s to bake out my frustrations.”

Sara chuckled and grabbed a muffin. “May your frustrations never wane. Except the sexual ones, which,” she took a deep breath and sighed, “looks like I won’t be getting laid again for, oh, eternity.”

“Melodrama suits you so well, Sara,” Patti remarked. “But the muffins are divine, June, thanks.”

Pavel jogged across the road and sat next to June. After a shy nod to all, he took a full mug from Patti and a muffin from the platter. Sara winked at Patti.

“Today will be cooler,” Pavel said to no one in particular, trying to ease the sudden lull in conversation.

“Damned well hope so,” Patti replied. “How’s Sam after yesterday's ecitement and that new vision?”

Sara answered, “He was tired but left just before dawn.”

“He was worried about the lack of violence with Dean after all the previous torture,” June added. “How odd is that?”

“Not at all,” Patti answered. “Probably worried it’s the calm before the storm. And then a bit concerned about seeing someone who looks like you wandering around Hell.”

“Okay,” June said. “That bit bothers me. What if he thinks I—”

“Don't even go there,” Patti said. “He knows it’s not _you_ but an approximation. A shapeshifter, I’d guess. And if I’m half as clever as I think I am, sent there to totally disorientate Dean if and when he gets out.”

“That’s just mean,” June whispered. “But why me?”

Patti grinned. “Why not? It’s a well-known fact that Dean has a thing for pretty women, and you do fit the bill, kid.”

June rolled her eyes and elbowed Sara in the ribs to stop her snickering. “Maybe I’ll cut my hair short or go goth.”

“I like your hair,” Pavel said quietly.

“Did you get the thing Sam saw?” Sara asked, after exchanging conspiring glances with Patti. “Was it really a banshee?”

“Yep,” Patti said with a nod. “Over in Faith. She was about to go after the eldest son. Enos capped her screeching just in time.”

“Is he still there?” June asked, topping up her coffee.

“Don’t think so,” Patti answered. “He was going to check the family over, then head to Rick’s and keep an eye on Sam.” She pulled a piece of folded stationery out of her blouse’s pocket. “We worked up a roster, keep an eye on the situation. Make sure they don't pull a fast one with Sam. Enos takes the morning shift…”

~*~

 

After a routine scavenge, Dean returned to the place he had established as _his_ territory, _his_ fortress in the City of Lost Souls. Almost on the edge, not far from the northern gate, Dean had come across a place that seemed to have been modelled on a run-down motel. It was small, a total of only five rooms, what would have been an office, and a crater where a pool could have been, if water was ever to be found in Ashmedai’s portion of Hell. The packed sand that resembled a parking lot was off the only road that led back to the City.

"City" was a loose word for the ever-changing mockery of an American urban landscape. Whatever buildings you saw depended on what your memory dredged up. For Dean it varied from the vague towns of his childhood to the towns of his last year on Earth. Never those that held happy memories, but rather those where his dad had returned hurt, or hadn’t returned, towns where Sam ran away, the town where he himself had died. The City was a sprawl of colorless — despite blazing red sands surrounding the city — decrepit buildings in a perpetual state of disintegration. The buildings themselves morphed frequently, making it difficult to navigate inside the fortified area, to keep one's bearings for long. There were no signs, no guideposts, no flashing neon. Some characteristics of the city did remain constant: high buildings surrounded the seedy center; the outward urban-esque sprawl; each of the four gates into/out of the city sported a relief dragon devouring an animal (a lion, a snake, a goat, and a whale depending on which gate). 

Dean never bothered with the symbolism of any of it. He figured out early on that few things that were important had nothing to do with architecture. He had been told by a long-time "resident" that lesser demons hated fire because the blue flame that burned in the City reminded them of the Pit in Samael’s quadrant. And so Dean kept a fire constantly going. He learned that time ran similarly to time on Earth: there were days, nights, weeks months. Ashmedai, like clockwork, hunted on "Tuesdays" and "Fridays", and if he wasn't hunting souls himself, he sent his dragon —  the same dragon that had chased Dean in the desert.  He learned from another old-time, who had since found release, that every single soul not caught  in a hunt eventually either joined Ashmedai's army or threw themselves into the Abyss of Despair. The last constant Dean learned was that there was a bounty on his soul.  He decided it was not worth discovering exactly what the reward was, and so, every room in the motel, his fortress, had its own trap. Or two, once he’d been able to make enough pigment to draw the traps.

And the woman screaming her head off was caught in the snare in room two, hanging over the very first devil's trap he'd made in Hell.

"Who sent you?" Dean yelled over her screeches.

"What? No one! I was running from … something and I found this place. It looked like a good place to hide from them." She kept brushing her ash blonde hair from her face, refusing to accept the futility of her actions.

"Them?" Dean repeated.

"Little creatures, with red hot pincers, or something. A couple got me. See?" She held up her arm for Dean to see the angry red welts. 

"You’re still moving."

"I'm not! I'm hanging upside down. The blood is rushing to my head."

Dean crossed his arms over his chest. "No it's not. That's an illusion."

"But I can feel it!"

"No blood. You're dead."

"Then why do I feel like I'm going to vomit?" She covered her mouth with her hands. “Oh, man.”

"That's what you expect to happen. Stop wiggling,” Dean ordered. “Why are you here?

"I told you!"

"No. In the City. What'd you do to be sent here?"

"I didn't ask to be sent here! Are you going to let me down or do I have to be sick all over the floor?"

Dean sigh in exasperation before he went to the wall and loosened the knot that held the snare, lowering the woman none too gently to the floor. He watched while she untied the rope then threw it across the room. She brushed the dirt off her pants, then pointed to the carvings in the floor.

"What's that?"

"A trap. It keeps demons in place."

"Does it work?"

"Usually."

"Then what do you do with them? The demons."

"Kill them."

"Oh."

"Name."

"Amanda. Yours?"

"You sold your soul?"

"Fine,” Amanda said and put her hands on her hips. “Not exactly. My little brother was dying so my mother made a deal with this man who said he'd give little brother ten more years. He was gorgeous and my mother fell for it. I thought he was full of shit. I sure didn’t count on this, this place."

"Didn't she read the fine print?"

"There was a printed version? Wait!” she screamed as Dean turned and headed toward the entrance. “Where are you going? Don’t leave me!”

“Look,” Dean said, turning on his heels to glare at her. He pointed a finger at her. “I didn’t invite you here. I don’t want you here. Go back the way you came and leave me the fuck alone.”

Tears welled in her dark eyes. Exactly what color they were Dean couldn’t tell, but he could see they were framed by thick, dark lashes and that a copious amount of water was spilling out and down her cheeks. Trust his luck to have some over-emotional, helpless newbie stumble on his place.

“I can’t go out there. Those, those things will get me! Please. You have to help me.” She hiccuped then continued. “Look, you seem like a decent guy. Well, decent enough for someone stuck in, in—”

“Hell.”

“Yes, Hell. I mean, I don’t know what you did to get here, but you could’ve killed me when you had the chance and you didn’t. That has to count for something. Right?” She waited a beat, then whispered, “Right?”

Dean grit his teeth then turned back to the entrance. “Fine. You can stay here for a very short time. I’ll teach you enough to get you by and then you get the hell out of my place. Okay?”

“Okay,” Amanda, punctuating her statement with a sniff. “But where are you going? Can I come?”

“You stay put. I’m going to get you kindling. First lesson: always have a fire going.”

“Okay. Fire. But there are no trees.”

“Not wood,” Dean said as he crossed the threshold. “Bones.”

“Oh.”

~*~ 

 

“You gonna stay out here again all damned day? Watch the grass die or something while Sasquatch trains with that thing?” Rick asked, flicking his cigarette butt into the antique spittoon he kept by the back door. He'd found it at a garage sale in Fargo when his Uncle John had passed on. But Sheila’d given him an ultimatum and the find of the century never made it inside any of Rages' buildings. 

"Think I might just stand here and ponder the next buffalo migration," Enos replied. "Y'all do get buffalo here, right?"

"We don't get shit here no more. Except demons and freaky Easterners like yourself. Course, I never saw a wild buffalo. Alive, anyways. Old man Calebson had a stuffed buffalo head over his mantle. Smelled somethin' fierce. House burned down in," Rick paused, chewed on his lower lip and then puffed out a long breath, "in March, I think. First of the freak storms. Damned if he wasn't in Butte visiting relatives and the house got hit by lightning. Blew up and all."

"Hell's goddamned bells, some fucking weird ass shit goes on around here." Enos lit up another cigarette. "And that uses up my hourly quota of cussin'."

Rick opened the kitchen door. "Yep. Sheila'll crack your skull you use that kind of language when you come over tomorrow.”

"Six?"

"Yeah, and bring that healthy salad crap you're so fond of. June's baking some Russian thing with fruit on top. Named after her boyfriend, or that guy with the dogs. Don't you be late and leave me with all them women."

"Sure thing," Enos said with a smile as the door slammed. 

He leaned against the building and closed his eyes. Sometimes, when the urgencies of life in Rages slowed down, when no one needed nursing, or Sam didn't have a vision that sent the boy crashing to his knees in pain, Enos would marvel at how much he'd achieved since arriving in Rages. 

"Good afternoon, Enos," he heard.

Enos turned toward the voice, took in the serious expression in the sky-blue eyes. "Hey, Ralph. How you been, man? People are worried 'bout you."

"I am fine, thank you for asking."

"Where've you been?"

“Around. I’ve come to speak with you. I need your assistance." Ralph walked to stand in front of Enos, blocking his view of the overgrown playing field. "Enos Lawrence," he continued quietly, "I brought you here for a specific reason.”

Enos pushed off the building and ground his cigarette out with the toe of his steel-toed boot. As he looked at Ralph, his mind flashed back to the rooftop in December. In front of him he saw the security guard, the man with the pale blue eyes, who had talked him out of jumping off the rooftop and sent him here. 

"Holy shit. You're him. You're not Ralph."

Ralph smiled. "I am not he, no. Ralph does not truly exist."

"Then how come everyone knows you and remembers things about you? And who are you?"

"They remember because they draw inferences and I never correct them. I am, in another realm, Raphael."

"Whoa, wait. The angel? With wings and shit?”

"Yes, but Ralph here, now at least, please. Do you understand?"

"No," Enos admitted. "But I'm finding I understand less and less of this world than I thought. You said you needed my help?"

Ralph nodded. "I brought the three of you here to protect someone—"

"June. From that bigwig demon boyfriend."

"No," Raphael said. "June needed rescuing and I was able to fulfil that mission. Bringing her here would also help Sara."

"Huh. Wait." Enos's eyes narrowed. "You know about the deal? Is Sam being here your idea too?”

"His arrival is not of my doing. However, what he is to embark upon necessitates,” Ralph hesitated, staring into Enos’s face as he did. “It requires changes in my plans."

"Why does no one in this goddamned place speak straight? No offense, by the —"

"None taken," Ralph shrugged. "By me, at any rate. Enos, I knew Sara was being hunted and has been for almost two decades. Until a short while ago, Rages was safe for her. I brought you, Patti, and Pavel here to help as you all have the necessary life experiences. Unfortunately, Sam Winchester brought her predator here."

"So if you didn't bring him here, why the goddamned Hell’d he come? No offense."

“I believe he was drawn here by the surge in local demonic activity?” Enos nodded. “I believe you've discovered that Sam’s brother is key to the creation of an apocalyptic war. Elements in Hell, and beyond, want Dean Winchester out of Hell and thus avoid such an event. To this end, Sam is being given the opportunity to rescue his brother. By coming here he attracted the demon presently inside the bar to negotiate that deal with him.”

“Huh. But why us? Specifically, I mean.”

“Patti has experience with demons, and a very kind heart, as you too have noticed. Pavel, like you, has military training, but unlike you, does not discuss it.”

“Yeah, we noticed last night when — Wait. You know we’re all helping Sam, right?”

Ralph smiled. “I would expect no less.” 

“Huh. And you want us to protect Sara while helping Sam?” When Ralph arched an eyebrow, Enos asked, “I assume I’m not supposed to reveal your secret identity, right?”

 “It would be best if people didn’t think you were insane. So, yes." Ralph nodded. "I’d appreciate it.”

“Like they don’t already know I’m whack.” Enos pointed at Ralph. “You know that if you just up and disappear, they’re going to start asking questions. Specially Sara. She’s really worried about you not being around lately.”

Ralph smiled. “I will take that under advisement. And thank you, Enos.”

“Yeah. This ain’t ‘cause you saved my life, you know. I’m doin’ this for Sara.”

“I understand,” Ralph said. “And now there are a few things I need you to know in order that you may plan accordingly.”

“Huh,” Enos replied. “Go ahead…” 

~*~ 

 

“Sam,” Sara whispered, trying not to startle him. “Hey, Sam?” She jostled his shoulder. “Hey! Sasquatch!”

“Time?” he mumbled. 

“Quarter past six. Sunrise is at six past seven today. Come on,” she said. “Rise and shine!”

Opening his eyes, he realized he’d fallen asleep on the couch in the living room. He straightened up, stretched and began to massage the back of his neck to work out the kinks. After the second vertebrate cracked, he asked, “Why are you up?”

“Making sure you’re awake and fed. There’s fresh coffee, I can make you eggs, but we’ve got other stuff. June made muffins before you guys moved in—“

“Yeah,” Sam said, rising from the couch. “I remember. Listen—“

“Morning, Sam,” June said brightly. Her blond hair hung down in a wet, straight curtain to the middle of her shoulders. She was dressed in jeans, a pale grey T-shirt and pink fluffy slippers, the most casual he’d seen her since he’d arrived in town. “Shower’s free. I think there’s hot water left.”

“Okay,” he said. “This is weird. You two do realize I can do this on my own, right?”

“No, Sam,” June said. “We’re all in this together.”

“Yeah,” Sara agreed. “We’re changing the town’s welcome sign. ‘Rages, We’re all in this together.’ Whadya think?”

“I think,” Sam said, reluctantly pulling out a dining room chair and sitting at the table. “I think you are all insane.”

“Fair enough,” Sara said, pouring him a cup of coffee. “So, what are your plans for today, Sane Sam?”

“As far as I know, same as they have been for the past three days. Train, get the shit beat out of me and go back for more.”

June pushed the muffins toward him. “But have you discovered anything since you started?”

Sam took a long drink of coffee then looked over the rim of the mug at Sara. Putting the cup down, he replied, “I've discovered that you two suck at fishing.” Shaking his head at Sara’s look of mock disdain — hand to her heart and all — he continued, “Visions we knew. Working on tempering them a bit. Apparently it wouldn’t help to walk into Hell and be crushed by one. Telekinesis I could do before. Well, once. But that one has resurfaced and looks like it’ll work if I concentrate.”

“Teleportation?” June asked.

Sam shook his head. “Not yet. Some mind control, I think. Got some feral rabbits to stop and look at us before they ran off.”

“Wow, that’ll scare the big, bad demons,” Sara teased with a roll of her eyes.

“Never know,” he responded.

“Small steps,” June advised. “You have until Saturday, right?”

“Have you found out where Dean’s being held?” Sara asked. “Besides Ashmedai’s section. In a city. That much we had before, right?”

“Think so,” Sam agreed. “Kipod let it slip—“

“Let it slip?” June repeated. Sam arched an eyebrow in response. “Suspicious?” she asked. “Agreed.”

Sara poured him some more coffee. “How’re you going to get in? Has he said anything?”

“‘In through the out door’ is what Ashmedai said,” Sam answered. He opened his hand and the mug of coffee slid across the table until he grabbed it. “No idea yet what he means. Find out on Friday, I guess.”

Sara arched an eyebrow but continued, trying to act nonchalant. “It’s not here? In Rages?”

“No, that I’m sure about. Kipod keeps talking about using transportation to get to the ‘out door’.” Sam stood up. “Have to get dressed and get to Rick’s. Who’s babysitting this morning?”

“Pavel. Enos is out on a call,” June answered as Sam headed to the back of the house. “You want a ride?”

~*~

 

Dean stared at the City until the dilapidated buildings in front of him blurred into one mass of muddy reddish-grey. If he’d been alive, his breath would’ve caught in his throat and his heart would’ve stopped. Barring a deal, which he _promised_ he wouldn’t do, there was no way in Hell —

“Hey!” 

Dean shook himself from  his reverie and turned around. “What the fuck is wrong with you, Amanda? Do you not know the meaning of quiet?”

Amanda stopped running down the alley, her face pulling into a tight grimace. “Sorry. I got enough kindling for both of us,” she said, showing him a full sack of bones. “Some have already been charred. They’ll still work, right?”

“Yes,” he answered in a clipped tone before he turned his attention back to what he thought he had seen, to the City’s center.

She sidled up to him and followed his line of sight. “What’re you looking at?”

“Thought I saw someone I knew.”

“Well, that would be kind of cool, right?”

Dean’s shoulders slumped. He was sure she meant well, but trying “day” and “night” to keep her safe was wearing thin. There was only so much he could teach her, so much he could help her with. She’d been with him a lot longer than he had originally intended, but he still didn’t think he could let her loose on her own. Unlike other residents of the City who survived, she just didn’t seem to take things in. As for common sense: she must have left hers top-side. Maybe the real reason she ended up in the City was to drive him crazy. 

“Amanda, in what universe would seeing someone you know in Hell be ‘cool’?”

She shrugged. “Dunno. If they were like, your worst enemy or something? Then you could set them up to be eaten by that dragon. Tell them that hunting days are different. Or send them to the Miry Clay and then they’d get stuck for all eternity trying to get unstuck. Get it?”

Dean turned around and narrowed his eyes. For someone who appeared naive, petite and helpless, she had the nastiest streak he’d seen outside of demons. 

He shook his head. “I get it. Anyway, I was wrong. Come on,” he said, waving her to follow him up the hill. “We need to head back. Hunt tomorrow.”

“That reminds me!” she said, scrambling to keep up. “Dimitri? The old guy in the banking district? That’s his name, right?” She saw Dean nod. “He said to tell you that some guy was looking for you. Said he sent him the wrong way, just in case.”

Dean stopped in the middle of an intersection and turned around to grab Amanda’s shoulders. “Did he say who it was?”

“No. Just some guy. Is this bad? Think he wants your soul like that other one who got offed?”

“Did he describe him at least?”

“Stop shaking me,” Amanda demanded. “He said he was really, really tall — taller than you — which doesn’t say much since Dimitri is short. Um, intense, small eyes. Green, I think or maybe kind of green. Shaggy hair. Um what else? Dent in his chin like you. Like he could pound the shit out of something ‘cause he was all muscle-y and angry. Oh! And he said he wore too many clothes to be in Hell. Again, like you!”

Dean let go of Amanda’s shoulders and lifted his gaze to stare into the downtown area. Amanda watched as he scanned the area very carefully before sighing and turning to continue back up the hill to the motel.

“Damn it, Sammy,” she heard him mutter.

~*~

 

“It is very good of you to meet me,” Ralph said, opening the truck door for Enos.

Enos emerged from his truck and stood in the middle of the deserted town. He scanned the few remaining buildings, looked down the street and then back at Ralph. “Man, this place is a hole. Why here?”

“This is the place where I’m certain Sam will emerge from Hell with his brother. If he is successful.”

“If?”

“That is always a possibility. The odds could stack against him.”

Enos took a deep breath and once again looked around the ghost town. He turned to his left and pointed, “Holy shit. Is that a skeleton on the water tower?”

“Yes,” Ralph answered, nodding. “One of Azazel’s chosen. She was killed by another of his children, for lack of a better term.”

“Azazel?” Enos repeated. “As in the demon Sam and Patti talk about all the time? The one she says started all Sam's problems?"

"Yes, the one that Dean Winchester killed. Sam is his chosen successor."

"Huh," Enos replied. "Fuck me."

"You are not my type, I'm afraid."

"Huh?" Enos's eyes opened wide. "Oh! And the angel has a sense of humor!"

"On occasion." Ralph shrugged. "Helps to blend in."

"I'll bet. So, again, why do you think he’ll dump them here?"

"It will remind Sam of what he has become. Whether Sam chose his role or not, he is no longer fully human." Ralph watched Enos's face as he took in the information. "Also, you're standing in the spot where Sam died."

Enos looked down then jumped back. "Shit! Right here?"

"Exactly there. It was in that building there," Ralph pointed to his left, "where Dean laid out his brother while he made the deal."

"And you know this all how? Gossip magazines?"

"It has become common knowledge, universally."

"So, Sam's situation is even worse now because he's training with that demon—"

"Kipod. And yes, exactly. Family is all the Winchesters have. However the concept of family is often extended not by progeny but by those whom circumstance has brought together." Ralph looked at Enos. "Family has fluid boundaries that can hold more than a select few."

Enos nodded. "Does Sam know he'll end up here?"

"I do not believe so," Ralph said with a shake of his head. "To give him warning would dispel the shock, lessen the impact."

"Fair enough. You know all this for sure?"

“Not entirely, but I know Ashmedai, and this is how he operates. Surprise, isolation."

"Psychological warfare. Need to fight back at the same level somehow." Enos turned around in a wide circle. "We should secure the area, fortify—“

"Electricity would be a good idea," Ralph suggested.

"Need to set up a triage area," Enos said as he began to wander the town. "Need to tell the others, get them involved. But," he said, facing Ralph once again. "Not Sam. He could slip and let the cat out of the bag."

"I'll leave you to it, then."

~*~

 

Ashmedai surveyed the city below his palace. He could see the quiet activity, sense the complacency in the residents' movements. He had a fabled schedule, had maintained that schedule for millennia but now needed a distraction to allow his detractors to think that the "insurgency" had spread to his quadrant. 

Those siding with them had already begun to play their roles. During the emergency meeting of the Assembly, the alarm of Winchester's disappearance had been raised. Belial's son had accused Samael of assassination, which led to an entertaining spot of torture. Ashmedai's mother had conducted a well choreographed spat with Queen Igrat in the same Assembly. When Lilith the Elder sided, as they had all hoped, with Igrat, his mother had literally stormed out. 

At the same moment Ashmedai had sent Winchester scurrying across the dunes of his desert, his father, Shamdon was calling for the unanimous support of Samael and Lilith's plan to initiate the Apocalypse. He was demanding that Azazel's murderer be returned so that the course of events could proceed as ordained. As Ashmedai secured his own deal with Sam Winchester, Abbadon claimed to all that Dean had been spotted in the icy nether regions near the Pit. Meanwhile, Kipod trained Sam and Afrin and Katsimon played with Dean.

Sam Winchester had only teleportation to call forth and he'd be ready. 

It was time to set the final stages for Dean Winchester's reunion with his younger brother.

~*~

 

Patti decided to stay a little longer before heading back inside the store. She had more research to do and Bobby was going to call later with confirmation of some of the material she’d seen on Sara’s table. Enos and Pavel had left in the truck to parts unknown, deep in discussion from the looks of it as they drove past. 

Enos had made some amazing pronouncements about Sam's training and what he thought would happen in Hell, warning that no one beyond the table was to know the details. He didn't let them in on how he came up with this wealth of new insight, dismissing her questions with a drawled out, "Them books you let me read."

Which set off all sorts of alarm bells. Enos only spoke like that when he was mimicking some of the more stubborn patients he and Doc treated. The others passed it off as a jibe about himself, but Patti knew it was something else. She also knew that she hadn't lent him any books. Instead, he always asked for photocopies of the pertinent parts of her notes.

She refilled her mug and added a splash of milk. No way would he be able to know from her notes, and what they saw at Sara's, the "most likely" place where Sam would reemerge with Dean. And how did he know where Sam had been fatally stabbed? She didn't even know the particulars about Cold Oak. She couldn’t understand how Enos had discovered all this. She did understand, and agreed,  that Sam not know anything before he went into Hell: that the more he knew the more his enemies could find out and the whole thing would blow up in his face. 

All Sam needed was the knowledge and abilities he carried with him, the ones he was being trained to use.

With that, another tidbit popped into her head and she flipped open her notebook. Scanning the notes she had hastily scribbled after Ashmedai had left the second time, she noticed one phrase no one had been able to decipher: the weapon Sam would need once he entered Hell. From what she had witnessed, watching at the back door of Rick's, Sam had received no weapons' training. Hand-to-hand, yes. Weapons? None.

"May I join you, or is this a private moment?"

Patti started and snapped her notebook shut. She looked up to see Ralph standing by the table, the sun in his face, glistening off the silver in his hair. "Of course, Ralph! How are you? We've been worried."

"So I've been informed."

"Sit! Sit!" she said, gesturing toward the empty chairs. He nodded when she lifted a mug and raised her eyebrows. 

"Where've you been? Not sick, I hope," Patti said, pouring coffee into the mug and sliding it across the table. "There's milk."

"I have been well, thank you." Ralph added some milk and took a sip of the coffee, keeping his gaze on Patti as he did so. Smiling softly he said, "I do prefer mine with caramel syrup, but this is nice."

Patti's eyes widened. She studied him as he continued to drink the coffee, grimacing with every sip.

"If you _had_ figured it out before now," he said finally, “things would not have worked out as they have. This is for the best, I assure you."

"Who are you?"

"Not a demon, as you well know."

"But not Ralph." Her eyes narrowed. "Which one?"

Ralph smiled. "Raphael. How is Sara?"

"Sara?" Patti repeated. "Ah, of course. You know."

He nodded and took another sip of the coffee.

"How long have you known?" she asked.

"Hmmm," he replied. "Two millennia. This particular Sara, twenty years. How is she doing? Now that she too knows."

"You could go see for yourself."

"I'd rather ask you, since you will be honest. Sara will try, as we both have come to learn, to pretend she is fine."

Patti nodded in agreement. “As well as can be expected."

"Good," Ralph said, leaning back in the chair. "It's what I intended when I brought you all here."

"Wait. Sara's the reason you spilled coffee on me?"

"Yes," he admitted with a nod. "Also, you were very unhappy there at that time.”

"True, but not—" Patti waved her hand. She bore down hard on her teeth, biting back the retort she felt bubbling to the surface. "Water under the bridge now. You know about Sam?"

"Yes, of course. That is the other reason I have stopped here today." He pushed the mug toward Patti, waited for her to refill it. When she passed it back to him, he raised it to his lips, paused, then took a long drink. Patti waited while he drank his coffee — this time without milk. 

He finally put the mug on the table and leaned forward. "You are curious. I have entrusted the weapon you were pondering earlier into your care. You will find it presently in your office, on your desk. On Friday, just before sunset, put it into Sam's vehicle. Not the big black one, but rather the one you will tell him to drive to his destination. Do not inform him of its nature, just that the weapon he will need to free his brother has been provided and he will find it when he arrives at the Devil's Gate. When he returns, I shall require the weapon back."

"Aren't you going to ask how he's doing?"

"No, he is not my concern," Ralph admitted. "I’m certain he will be fine with your help."

"Fine?" Patti yelled then looked down Main Street. "He feels horrible because he was coerced into agreeing to give Sara to Ashmedai!"

"Interesting," Ralph said as he rose from the chair. "I thought civilisation had moved on."

"What the…? On from what?"

“The notion that women were chattel," he replied, moving to stand beside Patti. "A piece of advice I wish you to hold close and dispense when you deem necessary." He crouched until she had to tilt her head down to look into his eyes. "A person cannot give away that which does not belong to them."

He rose, glanced skyward. He was smiling when he looked back at Patti. "Enos is a good man. Don't you agree?"

 


	7. Chapter 7

 

"See that mysterious guy again?" Amanda asked. 

Dean shook his head. “No, it’s not him. Let's go, we need fuel."

Amanda skipped behind Dean as he walked west, away from the City center. "How can you be sure it isn't the guy you think it is?"

"Because, Amanda. That's how I know." Dean bent down and picked up a set of ribs and tossed them into his bag. _Because Sam promised me_. 

"But _how_ do you know?" Amanda scooped up a couple of ulna and humerus bones. She left the finger bones on the ground since Dean had told her they burned too quickly. "Come on! _How_ do you know it's not him?"

Dean continued on his way, ignoring her pleas for conversation. Something in the air put his senses on alert, but he couldn't figure out what was different. There were no unusual sounds, no flapping of wings, no scurrying of smaller demons running for cover. It wasn't the right day, but the tension before a hunt was there. It was permeating everything in the City.

Dean looked up. The air shimmered and Tanin burst onto the scene, swooping down like a swallow, scooping up those gaping in disbelief.

"Amanda! Move it!” he yelled, running ahead until he found an recess into which he ducked for cover. He turned just in time to see Amanda stumble in a small hole, her bag of bones scattered on the red ground. She struggled to get back on her feet but the dragon plunged downward and seized her in his massive jaws. As Amanda's screams pierced the air and echoed off the walls, Tanin flew upward toward the volcano.

~*~

“Move over, Pavel,” Sara said, seating herself in the booth.  “Here’s the thing: Aaron says it's routinely dismissed as a fantasy, the delusional rantings of some _bene gesserit_ who's gone too long without Spice."

"Huh," Enos remarked. "Aaron's wording exactly?"

"Yeah," Sara said, pulling papers out of her backpack and laying them out on the table. "He's a total _Dune_ freak. Anyway, he reread the text and then drew me this map that I printed up. Not sure it will help but," she shrugged. "What's Sam got to lose, right? I mean, it’s not like Kippy has given him directions, has he?"

"Not that we know of," Patti said. "So explain these to us."

"Okay," Sara leaned over and rearranged two of the pages. "The City of Lost Souls is on top of a hill. The solitary hill in Ashmedai's quadrant, which is a desert of red sand—"

"In Sam's vision," June said.

"Exactly. The only thing higher is this volcano where Ashmedai's palace is. Classic defense structure. Outside the city, on the sides away from the volcano, place’s littered with caves. Here, here, here,” she pointed to each spot in turn, "and here are four gates. The only ways on the ground in or out of the city. Each one leads in a different direction. Go through the wrong gate and you can fall into the Abyss of Despair, get stuck in Miry Clay for eternity, or get swallowed up by a sea monster. That sort of stuff."

"Inside the city?" Pavel asked.

"Tortured and or evil souls. Kept there by guilt, fear, self-hatred, etc."

"Anyone ever escape?" Patti asked.

"Once you're there, you're stuck unless you head out to worse places. Ashmedai can take souls out, but—" Sara shrugged.

"What goes on inside?” June asked.  “Besides the wailing and gnashing of teeth?"

"Apparently all an illusion built by the individual, or so the source says. Not all the souls will encounter the city the same way. It changes as it feeds off the guilt."

"So Dean's city will be something I can relate to?"

Sara let out a squeal and put a hand to her chest. "Holy Moses, Sam. Stealth is obviously on your new talent list. Yes, I guess so. I was just explaining this map. All hypothetical, based on a story." 

"Makes strategic sense, given the warlord, Sam," Enos said. "On a hill, fortified, limited access."

"Okay, go on." Sam sat on the vinyl bench next to Sara, forcing her to scoot over. He looked at the map then at her.

"Kippy say anything?" Sara asked nervously.

"Kippy?” Sam’s brow crinkled in confusion. “You mean Kipod? Not much. He said I'm ready to head out tomorrow morning. Have to be in Wyoming by sunset."

"Seven hour drive," Enos informed him. He glanced at Patti then back at Sam. "Got a car you can take. Better mileage, won't have to waste as much time refueling."

"Okay. Thanks.” Sam pointed to the dots around the city’s walls. “These?”

“Caves," Sara answered. "You can teleport now? Is that how you snuck up on us?"

"Badly, but yeah, I guess it must work,” Sam said. “Do any caves go into the city?”

“Historically, real history, they were used to house the poor," Sara explained. "But sometimes they were tunnels. Like outside Jerusalem. S’how they brought water in during sieges.”

“Kipod said my job is to go, find Dean, bring him out. But he said there’s a time frame, go in at midnight—”

“Aaron said that’s their weakest hour there,” Sara interrupted. “‘Have to attack at midnight,’ he said.”

“Okay, good,” Sam said, with a nod. “Did Aaron say when they’re strongest?”

“No, not really. Suggested you leave long before second watch ends.”

Sam watched Sara's blank reaction until Pavel said quietly, “Around six AM.”

Enos nodded. “In at midnight, out at dawn. Better hope your watch works in Hell. But why wait?”

Sam shrugged. “Kipod said Dean has to wait until he’s whole.”

“Healed, I would assume.” Patti suggested. "Typical Hell scenario — torture all day, then let them heal so they can start again."

 “What's this round space in the center?" Sam asked.

"Nothing,” Sara said, checking her notes. “It's always empty. Probably a landing spot for Ashmedai's dragon. It's his totem thing."

"Like in the vision," June added. 

“So no teleporting attempts that way," Sam said. "Kipod said Dean needs to be taken out through the lion’s mouth. Ideas?”

“Actually, yes,” Sara said. “This gate here,” she tapped the western wall, “has a lion’s head above it.”

“So?”

“The lion is the symbol of the Tribe of Judah. Humanity. Take him through that gate and you’ll bring him home.”

~*~

The weather in Louisiana suited his mood: the classic pre-hurricane drop in barometric pressure coupled with warm, moist air blasting in from the ocean. The perfect complement to the seething anger coursing through his human form. He had wasted so much time following purported sightings of Juliette that he was running the risk of missing his deadline. 

If he missed the deadline, his parents would literally serve his head up on a platter.

“Long time, no see, old friend,” said a man, the baritone voice barely registering above a whisper. 

Ormudz squinted against the afternoon sun and inspected the newcomer from head to toe and back again. After signalling a distant waitress, the man seated himself at his table. He loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt as he waited for acknowledgement.

“What do you want, Baal?” Ormudz finally asked. 

“Just happen to be in the area, scouring for a distraction from recent events back home. They are so tiresome, hey? All this fighting and squabbling, over one pathetic human.” 

Baal smirked, his black eyes twinkling. While Ormudz stared at him, he picked up a menu and ordered a pot of Earl Grey with a slice of peach cobbler.  When the waitress left, he leaned back and met Ormudz’s glare.

“Speaking of which, aren’t you searching for a pathetic human?” Baal asked.

“I’m sure you already know the answer to that, so why ask?”

“Conversation, dear boy. Turns out I heard something that might be of interest to you. What’s her name? Houdini?”

“Get on with it.”

“Ah, like father, like son. No sense of humor.” Baal paused, nodded his thanks when the pie was placed before him. “As I was saying, there is a whisper going around that ties your search in with that of your parents.”

“What the Hell are you talking about?”

“Your parents are looking for someone, correct? This someone used to be a hunter, correct? A hunter who has ties to someone still living, correct?”

“Fucking get to the point.”

Baal poured himself a cup of tea. “Rumor mill is rife with tidbits. One piece has it that Dean Winchester’s brother helped your treasure escape your grasp. He’s hidden her in a safe place. Safe from you, anyway. Guess who knows the probable location of that refuge? And guess who can get you access to said repository?” 

Baal took a sip of his tea then poured in a dollop of milk. Ormudz sat in stone-cold silence. Over the rim of the cup, Baal watched Ormudz take in the information and process the ramifications of what he was saying.

"You're telling me that Dean Winchester knows where Juliette is hiding?"

"Fuck me, didn’t you listen?" Baal took another sip of tea. "How could he _know_? Been in Hell all this time. But who knows his brother better? His hiding places, his habits, how the boy-king thinks?"

"Excellent points all."

Baal arched an eyebrow. "A bout of carefully executed torture and I'm sure you could get him to reveal the most logical hiding places. Winchester could narrow your search from the entire world to the continent of North America.”

Ormudz's jet-black eyes narrowed. "I thought he escaped when Belial was assassinated. Isn't half of Hell searching for him?"

"As I said, dissension and suspicion create the best gossip. Apparently someone dropped him into the middle of one of Ashmedai’s infamous desert hunts. Dragon went hungry then rampaged in Dumah’s domain.”

Ormudz furrowed his brow. “Is that so?”

~*~

Ashmedai nodded, very pleased with the turn of events. He had listened to Afrin as she told him about Dean’s frustration with “Amanda”’s inability to take care for herself, at the continued attempts on his soul for a purported bounty, and his — albeit recent — resignation that he will be there for the rest of eternity. All fostered by his despair at “seeing” Sam wandering the various alleys and side streets. He dismissed Afrin with the task of setting her own alibi for the past two earth weeks, and waited in his chambers for the next two missives.

The first arrived just before daybreak in the City. Ormudz had been told of Dean Winchester’s whereabouts, and the notion that he would hold the key to Juliette’s hiding place firmly planted in his mind. All Ashmedai had to do was promise Baal the souls of those who committed murders during the month of September. Ashmedai figured they were no fun to torture, and viewed the agreement as a win-win situation.

 When the second communication was delivered, he smiled. Everything was firmly in place. Sam was as trained as a hopeless human could be; the Sword had been delivered and would be in his hands when the time came; Dean Winchester would most likely be broken, but on his way out of Hell. 

~*~

“Have we got everything he’ll need?” Sara asked, putting the cooler with food in the front seat. 

June and Tammy had insisted they prepare a meal for Sam to take on the road and then extras for when Dean came out. Sara wasn’t quite sure why everyone else was playing coy about their own theories if — _when_ , she chided herself — he came out of Hell with Dean, but she went along with the game plan. Enos had insisted, Patty had that look about her that she too knew something and then Pavel and Enos would take off to parts unknown, in Pavel’s truck, usually laden with supplies from his store.

“There’s a couple of things in the office, if you could help,” Patti said. “Sara? Woohoo. Earth to Sara?”

“Yeah,” Sara said, snapping out of her revelry. “Right behind you.”

Sarah followed Patti into the store, side-stepping an M-bag of books sent from Minnesota and into the office. There, lying on Patti’s desk was something the likes of which she had seen only in text books and in the museums where she had worked as a docent in grad school.

“You bought him a replica sappara?” she said reverently, walking slowly to the desk to inspect the sword. “That’s kind of Bronze Age RenFaire, isn’t it?”

“Didn’t buy it,” Patti answered. “A, uh, friend lent it to us.”

“It’s a big one. Nearly two feet. The friend in Sioux Falls?”

“Nope. Another one. I do have more than one friend, you know.”

Sara cast her eyes over the sword then looked at Patti. “This is an amazing piece of reconstruction. May I?”

Patti shrugged. “Don’t see why not. So long as Sam doesn’t find out about it before he gets on the road.”

“Wow,” Sara said, lifting the weapon and gingerly inspecting the blade. “Phenomenal work. Right down to the inside blade being dull. Who’s the craftsman?”

“I don’t know. Wasn’t told.” She watched, waiting for Sara’s reaction as she inspected the sappara and drew her own conclusions. 

“Look at this fuller, amazing. It’s in pristine condition, a little bit of tarnishing for authenticity. Just … wow. Think Sam knows how to use it?”

“Think he’ll do fine when he needs to. That’s why he was lent the thing.” Patti looked up to see Enos enter the office and gave him a nod of acknowledgement. “But, Sara, I don’t think that tarnishing was put there for authenticity.”

“What do you mean? Hey, there’s writing etched on the hilt. It’s very faint, but I might be able to make it out.” 

Sara put the sword back on the desk, pulled the chair closer and seated herself. Leaning forward, she began to read, mumbling as she made out the words. “Granted to, somebody, as a victory gift of—“

“I mean, it _is_ authentic,” Patti said softly.

“What?” Sara said, lifting her eyes, from the sword.

“Patti’s trying to tell you to read the whole thing, Sara.”

Sara shook her head then continued, “Okay, so it was a reward by the people of, hang on, I can’t make this out, wait, what the—? No way. This say that it was a victory gift from the elders in the lands of—“ She looked up at Patti and Enos. “This is a joke, right? You are _not_ serious.”

“Who’s the owner, Sara?”

“This thing is supposed to be magic.”

“Yeah and Sam is going to use it to free Dean,” Enos said.

Sara lifted the sappara again, looked closely at the writing on the hilt, then said, “That word really is ‘Moses’, right? Sam is going to use _the_ Sword of Moses to rescue Dean?  No way! This is a myth. Doesn’t exist.”

“Says the woman holding it,” Enos said, suppressing a chuckle at Sara’s astonished expression. “The same woman who happens to be the apple of a mythical demon’s eye.”

“It’s authentic, Sara,” Patti said. “The angel Raphael lent it to us.”

“Next you’re going to be telling me Gabriel is going to blow his trumpet before Sam attacks.”

Patti tsked. “Don’t be silly. That would be gauche.”

~*~

From her vantage point inside the bar, just behind the door, Patti watched Sam and Sara as they parked the Impala next to Rick’s huge, rusting pick-up and exchanged a few words. After a backward glance and cursory nod to Tammy, she walked outside and met them just before they stepped on to the sidewalk.

“June stayed at home?” Patti asked, hoping that she put the right inflection into the question. The one she knew the answer to already.

“Pavel picked her up just before we left,” Sam explained. “He’s taking her out of town to distract her while this goes down.”

“Good idea,” Patti replied. She pointed to a silver-blue Saturn, sitting in the late morning sunshine. “There’s your wheels. Tammy lent it to us.”

“Nice of her,” Sam commented, turning to look at the car. “She knows it might come back in, uh, worse shape, right?”

Patti opened the passenger side door and jerked her head. “Look inside, “ she instructed. As Sam reluctantly obeyed, she added, “at the ceiling. She not only knows, she gave us the phosphorescent paint.” 

Sam looked at the pale purple Devil’s Trap staining the celling of the gray interior. He heard Patti mumble, “Besides, won’t kill her to get a better one.”

He backed out of the driver’s side as Tammy emerged from the bar. “Hey, big guy,” she said and placed a second cooler on the passenger’s seat. “Rick decided you’ll need extra food, so we put frozen stuff in here. It’ll keep ’til you’re ready. The other one we put in earlier has food that doesn’t need refrigeration.”

“Thanks, Tammy,” Sam said. “And for the car. You’ll get it back as soon as I’m done.”

“Yep, I know.” Tammy turned and went back into Rick’s, just as Enos stepped outside.

“Taking that duffel with?” he asked. “Or you want us to hold on to it for you?”

“No,” Sam responded, “I’m taking it. I’ll need what’s in it.”

Enos sneaked a furtive look in Patti’s direction, before grabbing the military green bag. “I’ll toss it in the trunk for you.”

Patti grabbed Sam’s arm and turned him to face her. “Look at me,” she said. “Don’t you dare hot dog it, Sam.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he agreed. 

“I’m serious.”

“Go in, get Dean,” Sara whispered. “Then bring him back so we can take care of you two.”

“I will. Promise,”  Sam said, looking at Sara, then at Patti and Enos. “I better get going. It’s a seven-hour drive and I want to be there before sunset.”

Sam watched as Enos slammed the trunk and nodded. He looked inside the car again and grinned. “Is there anything you didn’t think of?” 

Patti came to the door and closed it after Sam put the seat belt over his chest. “We’ve got it all covered. I told you, Sam, you’re not in this alone.”

She stepped back on to the sidewalk, thread her hand through the crook of Enos’ arm and watched as Sam drove off. As the sliver-blue car reached the outskirts of town, Enos brought his arm closer to his chest, Patti along with it.

Standing on the sidewalk. frozen with fear, Sara could hear a clock ticking off the seconds in her mind. Three minutes after Sam had started the car, she heard the bar’s door lock. Seven minutes after Sam drove out of Rages, Tammy and Rick pulled out in Rick’s wife’s black Nissan and followed him. Eighteen minutes after Sam had promised to bring Dean back to Rages, June drove Patti’s green SUV down Main Street, followed closely by the delivery van from Rages Electronics and Hardware.

~*~

Ashmedai ducked to avoid hitting his forehead on the overhang. This time when he had received the summons, he had travelled willingly from his desert kingdom to the dark and foreboding space in which he stood now.

“How did that creature end up in your domain?” Samael demanded to know as he stepped out of the recess of the cavern.

Ashmedai shrugged. “I was on a training hunt with Tanin and he was dropped into the middle of it. Literally dropped out of thin air. Screwed with Tanin’s mojo when he escaped her clutches.”

“Is that why she went on a frenzy in Dumah’s province?”

“Closest to mine,” Ashmedai answered. “City was on clamp down so she wouldn’t get distracted by snacks. She was hungry.”

Samael began to pace. “Do you have any control over your dominion?”

“Complete control but—“

“But?” Samael screamed, stopping in mid-stride to glare at Ashmedai. “You dare give me a ‘but’?”

“But,” Ashmedai repeaated, trying not to roll his eyes at Samael’s incessant flair for drama. “Concerning the plans to rid us of Dean Winchester. We’ve hit a puerile snag.”

“Which is what?” Samael demanded.

“Your son.”

Clenching his jaw in anger, Samael arched an eyebrow and waited for Ashmedai to continue. “I heard from souls planted inside the City that he’s on a rampage. It seems Ormudz believes the eldest Winchester knows where that human female is hiding.” Ashmedai watched as Samael’s brows lowered and furrowed into a V. 

“I _demand_ Samuel Winchester to be _bound_ to Hell,” Samael said, fire blazing in his eyes with each emphatic punctuation. “I _command_ it that he repossess his brother and be _indebted_ to us. I do _not_ want him on _their_ side because someone fucked up a sacrifice. Do _you_ understand?”

Ashmedai only blinked, but inwardly he grinned from ear to ear. “If it’s what you desire—“

“Did I say ‘desire’?”

“I will ensure that the younger Winchester reclaims his elder brother—“

“And damned well knows who made it possible!”

“As you command,” Ashmedai agreed.

~*~

Dean stomped his way back to the hellish hotel, despondent at his inability to halt Amanda’s destruction, angry that yet again he caught a glimpse of Sam in the City, frustrated that he wasn’t able to kick his brother’s ass back up topside, where it belonged. He slammed the door to room two, ripping it off its last hinge. Crossing the floorspace, he was taken by surprised when his foot flipped out from under him and he was catapulted upside-down toward the ceiling. For a moment he was disoriented; he was certain he and Amanda had taken the trap down when she claimed the room as her own. Then he grew confused when bending upward to check out the trap, he realized that there was nothing holding him captive.

Underneath him — dressed in a black pinstripe suit, no tie, top button undone, black shoes polished to a mirror finish — paced a demon whose human visage kept slipping. When he was in human form, Dean figured he passed for exceptionally handsome, but in mere seconds anger would contort his features into a hideous canvas of red and orange scales. He waited while the demon criss-crossed the floor where the Devil’s Trap had once been. 

“Where is she?” the demon finally demanded to know.

“Eaten,” Dean answered, twisting to monitor the demon’s reaction, wondering if this was Amanda’s brother — and if the bargain had gone catastrophically wrong. “By Ashmedai’s dragon. Couple of days ago.”

The scales on the demon’s face glowed brighter, hotter. “Juliette was here?”

“Juliette?” Dean repeated. “No. Amanda. Who’s Juliette?”

“She was to be my mate.”

“Whoa,” Dean said with an exaggerated drawl. “Must’ve been really desperate.”

“Do you _not_ know who I am?” Ormudz yelled, the scales on his face turning crimson. 

“Should I?”

“I am Ormudz, Prince of She’ol, commander of legions—“

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever.”

“You dare continue to mock me?” The reverberation from Ormudz’s voice shook the building’s walls and brought down chunks of the ceiling on to Dean’s face. “I am the son of she who bought your soul, from whom you fled like —“

“And you trapped me,” Dean said. “Here’s an idea: you go tell mommy. I’ll hang around here while you do.”

~*~

Sam pulled into the cemetery where the Devil’s Gate was located. He’d made excellent time, breaking a few speed limits along the way, and managed to turn off the engine just as the familiar, dull pounding behind his eyes began to escalate. Knowing time was of the essence, he grabbed the Excedrin Migraine from the glove compartment, a bottle of water from the cooler and swallowed the remaining two tablets. He jerked the handle on the car door and managed to take three steps before the throbbing exploded into a fiery, white light. 

Falling to his knees, the vision sent shivers up his spine. In a dilapidated farmhouse, a vampire feeding off a severely burned human, scorched furniture scattered across the room. A lizard-like demon ripping Dean’s tongue from his mouth. The same vampire and its willing victim slaughtering and devouring a teenaged couple. Dean hanging from the ceiling of a russet-colored cavern, screaming silently, his face contorted in agony as a snake constricted his body. The vampiric couple hitchhiking under a sign pointing toward Saint Louis.

Sam heard his name, repeatedly, the voice moving closer as twigs and gravel crunched under the weight of heavy footfalls. He opened his eyes to see a pair of well-worn work boots, faded jeans and hear a concerned voice call out, “Sam?”

He looked up to see Ralph bending down to look at him, concern etched across his face. “Ralph? What are — Wait! How’d you get here?”

“Are you all right?” Ralph asked, holding out a hand to help Sam stand.

“I’ll be fine,” Sam answered, waving aside Ralph’s offer of assistance. “What’re you doing here?”

“What was in your vision?” Ralph asked, unexpectedly putting his hand up and to the side as if to stop children crossing the road.

“What?” Sam asked.

“Your vision,” Ralph repeated. “We’re running out of time. Tell me and I’ll ensure it’s attended to.”

“It’s my fault,” Sam said with a sigh. “I was careless. Let some of them survive.”

“Mind reading is not one of the many talents I have been granted, Sam.”

Sam sighed. “Vampires, hitching a ride to Saint Louis. I thought I’d killed them all.” He glanced up at Ralph. “There’s no cell reception here.”

Ralph’s brow furrowed. “I do not know what you mean.”

“To call Patti and tell her.” Sam stood, did a sweep of the area, then looked at Ralph again. “How did you get here? There’s no other car in the area, Ralph.”

“Are you certain?” Ralph asked, waving his hand in a circle. “What about Dean?”

“Torture, as always. The demon looked like a snake this time.”

“Are you certain?” Ralph repeated.

“Snake or lizard, definitely reptilian,” Sam said. “Look, Ralph, I don’t have time. I have to meet someone—“

“Imamyah. I know,” Ralph said with a curt nod. “He’ll be on time but that will be as far as you can trust him. Or anyone or anything while you’re there, as a matter of fact.”

“You know this, how?” Sam asked, his growing impatience beginning to overpower the headache.

Ralph glanced toward the Gate, then shrugged. “We’re very well acquainted. Long way back. And before you ask, I won’t tell you. Loose lips, Titanics, or something like that.”

“Christos,” Sam whispered.

“Patti already tried. As you can see, not a demon.” Ralph moved toward the back of the car and waved Sam to follow. “Let me show you something before you can be on your way.”

Sam followed and watched as the trunk was opened. Ralph reached in and gently pulled out a wide leather scabbard. Sam took the offered weapon and drew it out just enough to see the patina, the first few letters engraved on the bronze blade.

“You cannot carry modern firearms into Hell,” Ralph said and pointed at the sappara. “This Sumerian blade you _can_ use. Carry it across your back, slash and burn. Just bring it back when you return with Dean.”

“Sumerian? Does Sara know about this?” Sam asked.

“I believe she recognized the weapon, yes,” he answered. “She studied Sumerian military tactics, remember? Sam, Ashmedai is Sumerian, his city’s defenses are Sumerian, a Sumerian sappara is something those under his command will understand. This sappara, however, is as unique as its original owner.”

“But —”

Ralph glanced to his left as an eerie green glow emerged from the center of the Devil’s Gate. “Your escort has arrived.” Sam looked toward the glow. “Listen to me, Sam,” Ralph said, the timbre of his voice deepening and commanding Sam’s attention. “You _will_ be played in there, so trust nothing. Reveal nothing, not even to Dean. You will be taken to the City of Lost Souls. I have been told that your brother is in there but that he is being hunted.”

“Ashmedai—“

“Is not the one who is hunting Dean now. Sam, do _not_ trust Ashmedai. He does not lie, but he does not tell the entire truth. He has put everything in motion solely for his own benefit.”

“Including your part in it?”

“Yes,” Ralph admitted. “However, there are things that Ashmedai did not, could not take into consideration: that you would have assistance; that civilization has evolved, while he has remains … stuck in the past.”

Sam looped the leather belt over his chest and adjusted the weight of the sappara. “He wants Sara when this is done.”

Ralph waved his hand. “Not your concern. Never was. Sam, find Dean. If he has been captured, you will have to fight to release him. Do _whatever_ it takes. Leave before the second watch. Dean may not be fully recovered but do not tarry. You have _kfitsat ha-derekh_. Use it to leave.”

Sam glanced over at the Gate, now completely engulfed in a pulsating, incandescent light. He turned to ask Ralph a question, but found only the silver Saturn. Taking a deep, steadying breath, he started toward the Gate, stopping a tombstone in front of it.

“I am Imamyah,” announced the demon emerging from the light. “I have come for you.”

Standing at least seven feet tall, his skin a deep onyx-color, with massive muscles and a expression that brokered no discussion, the demon growled and waited for Sam’s compliance. Even as his feet moved toward the Gate, his heart ready to enter into Hell to rescue his brother, all Sam’s mind could do was furnish a monologue — courtesy of Dean — comparing Imamyah to The Hulk.

“I will take you to the City of Lost Souls,” Imamyah said as Sam approached. He looked Sam over, from head to toe and back again, then sneered. “There you, pathetic creature that you are, will do as you have agreed.”

 The demon clamped a hand on Sam’s shoulder and Sam felt the _kfitsat ha-derekh_ begin. As brief as his training had been, and as ineffective as his attempts had proven, Sam was familiar with the sensations.  A tingle began in his fingertips and toes, intensifying as it coursed through his body, seconds before the teleportation would occur. 

“How do I find my brother?” Sam managed to ask as his vision started to fade.

“That is not my concern,” Imamyah answered. “I’m a journeyman, not a bloodhound.”

Rick waited until the cemetery returned to darkness before emerging from behind the mausoleum. He ran over to the Saturn, slammed the trunk shut then jumped in the car to follow Tammy to Cold Oak.


	8. Chapter 8

“Are you really, really sure?” Sara asked, throwing her backpack over her shoulder and slamming the car door. She closed the gate to what looked like it used to be a paddock and joined Enos on the dusty main road of the small town. Patti was behind them, closing the makeshift gate that blocked entry into the town; Sara learned on her way to Cold Oak that all the roads had electrified gates and an electrified fence encircling most of the town had also been erected. Pavel stood in front of one of the decrepit buildings on the left, cooking steaks on a gas grill with June chatting away beside him.

“Majority consensus positive?” Sara asked.

“Got it on highest authority,” Enos replied. “We’ll be staying in that two story over on the right.”

“Place gives me the creeps. I mean, seriously, look at that church—“

“Schoolhouse,” Patti corrected, putting her arm around Sara’s shoulders. “And it should. Whole place is haunted. Has been since its founding; legend has it one of the reasons good ole Jeremiah left and moved north.”

“If you go into any of the other buildings, take someone with you and keep the doors firmly propped open. Got it, kid?” Enos instructed. “And look ‘fore you walk, floors’re rotten in most.”

Sara nodded, then grinned. She jerked her thumb to her left. “Cobbler’s still got his sign.”

“Just in case June loses a heel,” Patti agreed as they walked up the steps. “Pavel put his equipment in there. The back-up generator for the fence and gate? In there.”

“How long will we be stuck here, do you think?” Sara asked as she followed the two of them inside. The walls looked as if a coat of whitewash had been very recently painted on. Lawn chairs served as furniture and candles were on each of the four, long trestle tables in the main reception area. “Do we have a timetable or anything?”

“Beds are this way,” Patti said, continuing down the hall. “We figure Sam will be here with Dean within the hour. He’s gone through the Gate and as you know, time flows differently in Hell.” She pointed to her left. “Enos calls that the recovery room. Reckons Sam’ll be a bit beat up. Next to that is Enos and Pavel’s room, and we’re across the hall. Comfy cozy if you like camping.”

Sara snorted. “Don’t you know the stereotype? Jews don’t camp. Sure as shit not in ghost towns.”

  


~*~

  


Sam landed hard, felt the impact jar his knees and was suddenly very grateful he’d taken painkillers before he started on his suicide adventure. As his vision returned, he tried to get his bearings in the unfamiliar terrain. In the pitch darkness of a starless midnight, he couldn’t pick out any of the landmarks he recalled from the map but could tell the city walls were higher and more solid than he had expected. Imamyah had transported him inside the City of Lost Souls; he could see small blue lights dotting the area to his right, allowing him to make out the silhouettes of dilapidated housing.

“Fires?” he mumbled.

“You are not here to roast pig.” Imamyah turned to glare at him. “ You are here to rid us of your brother’s insufferable presence.”

“How am I supposed to do that if you won’t tell me where he is?”

Imamyah’s glared softened to a sneer. “Easy. Just listen,” he said and cocked his head to the side. “You can hear the melodious sounds of his torture.”

Sam followed Imamyah’s lead. Above the calls and cries of unknown creatures, he managed to make out a distant howl of pain. Readying himself to run toward the source, he reached behind his back for the sword.

“Do not draw that here, you imbecile!” Imamyah snarled, grabbing Sam’s arm and jerking him backward. “Do you not comprehend what it is that you carry?”

“A Sumerian sword.”

“Naive child,” Imamyah said. “You carry on your back the Sword of Moses. Its magic and force are incomparable. Unsheathe it now and it will broadcast its presence to all in the vicinity. He who has your brother will certainly know you are coming.”

“Right,” Sam said. “Thanks, I guess.”

“While I do enjoy your brother’s operetta, I suspect you need to arrive there soon.” Imamyah’s face took on an orgasmic expression when he closed his eyes. “I can hear the rending of flesh and the slick ooze of, ah,” he licked his lips, “his intestinal cavity being perforated.” He directed his gaze into Sam’s eyes. “Hear his pain, home in on that pain and you will find him. Go!”

  


~*~

  


Patti walked into the building, flipping the antenna from the satellite phone down. “That was Rick. Tammy’s off back to Rages. He’s on his way here with her car.”

“Took him long enough,” June replied. “Did he see anything?”

Patti glanced over at Sara in the far corner reading a book by the LED camping lantern and listening to her iPod. She nodded. “Said Sam took the sword, then — and I’m quoting here — Black Hulk came out of a big round cement door and he went with him.”

“That door is your Gate?” Pavel asked.

“Devil’s Gate, yes,” Patti answered and seated herself next to Enos. “Now we wait.”

Pavel nodded, then sat up straight. “What is a Black Hulk?”

“You don’t know who The Hulk is?” Enos exclaimed, loud enough that Sara took out an earphone and looked over at the group. “Boy, your education is sorely lacking. Let me tell you about The Hulk and wonders of the Marvel Universe—”

“I heard that. There was no Black Hulk,” Sara interrupted. “There was a smart Hulk and a future Hulk, but they were all green.”

“You heard us with that noise in your ears?” Patti asked.

“Color’s not the point,” Enos argued.

“Big guy gets testosterone poisoning and breaks things. There’s a point?” June asked.

  


~*~

  


Sam materialized outside what looked like a small motel, with a gaping hole in the ground he was sure Dean’s imagination had placed in lieu of a pool. He inched his way away from a door with cuneiform on it, toward the sounds of someone moaning and objects crashing into walls.

“I said ‘where would he hide her’?” He heard a deep, sonorous growl from inside the next room.

“‘N I said ‘fuck you’,” was the answer, in what was clearly Dean’s voice.

Sam took another step toward a door with two elongated triangles marking what he assumed was the room number and waited, his back flat against the wall. Not wanting to be confronted with an illusion, he needed to be certain before he telegraphed any intention of a rescue, only to find he’d rescued a demon and Dean was languishing somewhere else. He heard what sounded like a gas stove being lit, the crash of something exploding, followed by the overwhelming smell of burning sulphur.

“My patience is running out!” screamed the deeper voice. “Your brother is hiding Juliette and I will know where!”

Sam leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes. Damned if the demon wasn’t Ormudz.

“Dude,” he heard Dean rasp, his voice trembling as he forced each word out. “Tried … week already. No Juliette. Here … century.”

“You son of a dog,” Ormudz growled and Sam heard a stomp and the snap of bone breaking.

No longer worried about who knew he was in Hell, or who might benefit more from the final outcome, Sam drew the sword from its sheath and, brandishing it in front of him, stepped across the threshold.

“Back away from my brother.”

Ormudz, his reptilian face a feverish red, spun around. “Brother? You! You dare show up here?”

“Back away from my brother,” Sam repeated through gritted teeth. “Now.”

“Or what?” Ormudz said with a maniacal cackle. He began to rock back and forth on the balls of his feet, clenching his fists. “You can’t kill me with that toy. But I can kill you, and when I do kill you, chosen of Azazel, here you will remain for all eternity. With your brother. A kamikaze rescue.”

Sam moved further into the room, circling to his left, drawing Ormudz away from Dean who was dragging his broken body along the dusty floor, struggling to get out of reach. One of Dean’s arms held in place a tangled mass of intestine that had fallen out of a cut spanning his lower abdomen.

“The moment I kill you, boy-king, the Apocalypse will start and you will be powerless —”

“If you kill me,” Sam interrupted. “I’ll be in Hell, where I can torment you for eternity. Besides, I hear there’s a vacancy.”

“That position is mine!” Ormudz screamed. “I am the son of Samael and Lilith! You are naught but a human!”

A sound like the whoosh Sam had heard before erupted and a fireball burst from Ormudz’s fingertips, flying erratically across the stretch of the room. It landed to Sam’s right, crashing into the floor at his feet. He had less than a minute to catch his breath, to move forward, before he saw a pale blue flame flow up Ormudz’s body from his feet to his fingertips.

“Lot of good your pedigree did you,” Sam said. “I am the chosen of Azazel. Not you. Me.”

The second fireball burst from Ormudz’s right hand, grazing Sam’s left arm before it exploded against the wall. Throughout the exchange, Sam continued to close in, hoping he’d be able to swing the heavy blade and wound Ormudz before he could attack again. He realised Ormudz knew exactly what he was wielding, that his strategy was to keep Sam at a distance, to exhaust him, keep him so busy that he’d be too tired to put up much of a defense.

This time Sam heard the tell and knew which way to move. The blue heat flowed up Ormudz’s body.

“Hit a nerve?” Sam taunted as the fire at Ormudz’s fingertips turned from blue to orange. When it turned yellow, Sam stepped to the side.

The pale yellow fireball hit just to the right of Sam’s head. Anger turned the scales on Ormudz’s face a deep crimson. Sam knew he couldn’t keep this up much longer: his arms were already getting tired from the weight of the sappara and if all he could manage to do was dodge fireballs, Ormudz would certainly win.

Ormudz arched one of his jet-black eyebrows as his feet glowed blue. “You grow tired, usurper. And when your energy is spent, I will fling you into the Abyss.”

The fireball slashed through Sam’s boot as yet another flame began to rise.

“Carry it on your back, slash and burn,” Ralph had said.

Sappara at the ready, Sam waited and angled the blade so that it could deflect the fireball when pitched. Ormudz telegraphed his projection just as Sam figured he would: from his left hand, pitching off-center to the right. Using the sappara like a LaCrosse stick, Sam clamped the fireball in the groove of the fuller. The blade hummed as the fire flowed down the curve. As soon as the flame pooled at the sappara’s tip, he flicked the flame directly back at Ormudz.

Ormudz howled in indignation and pain when the fireball engulfed him. While the flame grew blue and the stench of sulphur increased, Sam stepped forward and spiralled in to a slash cut, driving the sappara through Ormudz’s abdomen. As the upper half of the demon’s body fell to the side, thick black smoke poured upward, bursting through the ceiling and out of the make-shift building.

With a groan of pain, Sam dropped the sappara to the ground and glanced down at the second degree burns on his hands.

“Dean,” Sam said, kicking the discarded sword across the room to the corner where his brother lay. “Dean, hey, Dean,” he repeated when he finally reached him and sat on the ground.

Sam bent forward to hear what Dean was whispering, then straightened up. “Very funny, jerk.”

  


~*~

  


From the balcony of the master chamber, Lilith the Younger watched the events unfurl. Lights flashed in rapid succession along the northern wall, where she had been told Azazel’s assassin had holed himself. They had been erratic all week then suddenly, on this dark, glorious night, they began in earnest. When thick black smoke rose over the City of Lost Souls and flowed northward, she turned and smiled.

“It’s done,” she said leaning over the railing to see an imp’s tail sticking out of their dragon’s mouth.

“To our satisfaction?” Ashmedai asked.

“Indeed,” she answered and turned to stroll inside the room. “Ormudz is off, probably sulking like the spoiled brat he is. Give him a century and he’ll have plotted the perfect revenge.”

“Excellent,” Ashmedai agreed and smiled. “Now all we have to do is make sure those foul humans leave.”

“Before mommy and daddy find out.”

“Good point. Might have to clear the City to help that along.” Ashmedai patted the bed next to him. “In a bit. Not now.”

  


~*~

  


“Swear it wasn’t you,” Dean demanded, his voice still tinged with a rawness that pained Sam to hear.

“Dude, I’ve told you already. It wasn’t me. Now shut up and rest.”

“A demon would say that.”

“Yeah? Well, a demon would nag me about stuff I couldn’t do,” Sam argued. “Come on! How I was supposed to be here and there at the same time? And if I came to get you, why didn’t I get you, huh?”

“How did you get here, Sam?” Dean asked while he pulled himself gingerly upright. Sam noticed that the abdominal wound had closed and was now just an angry, red gash. Dean’s right leg remained at an awkward angle, and it was evident from the way the pants’ leg lay that both bones weren’t just broken, but that the fractures were compound and open.

Sam stopped staring at Dean’s mangled leg in time to see Dean closely regarding him. “What?”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “Tell me you didn’t,” he said softly. When all Sam did was look back down at the ground, he burst out with, “You promised!”

“It’s not like that, Dean.”

“I told you not to bargain your soul, to stop —”

“I didn’t bargain my soul.”

“Then what? Nothing’s free. What’d you promise them?”

“Not them.” Sam sighed and leaned his head against the wall. “Him. Ashmedai.”

“The fuck, Sam? Ashmedai?” Dean groaned. “We’re toast, man, both of us.”

“No, we’re not.”

“If you say ‘he promised’—”

“Well,” Sam said and shrugged. “He did. But we came up with our own plan.”

“We?” Dean put up the hand that had been holding his intestines. “Don’t. They can’t torture it out of me if you don’t tell — Wait. This ‘Juliette’ Ormudz wants to bang? Was she in on it?”

Sam shook his head. “No Juliette in my world. Besides, Ashmedai already knows who helped me.” He sighed again. “Look, the deal was take you out of here or they’d drive you into the Abyss when they got tired of you. I chose to take him up on it rather than let you continue to be tortured.”

“I was holding my own,” Dean said as he picked up his broken leg and tried to straighten it.

“No, Dean, you weren’t.”

“Uh, I was,” Dean argued. “Just like Timex. Takes a licking, keeps on ticking.”

“No,” Sam insisted and closed his eyes. “You weren’t. I saw what you went through. Almost every day. I’d get a vision and see you. Here. A dark cage. Electrocuted. Skinned. Chased by a dragon. Ra—”

“Everything?” Dean whispered.

“Think so, yeah.”

“Sorry,” Dean sighed. “What did you promise him, Sammy?”

Sam shrugged. “That I would train like Azazel wanted back in Cold Oak, but boot camp style.”

“You some kind of demon Jedi now?”

“More like intermediate Padawan,” Sam said, nodding. “Luke in the Dagobah swamp. I can Jedi mind trick the shit out of feral rabbits.”

Dean snorted. “That’ll scare the big, bad demons.”

Sam laughed. “Sara said the same thing.”

“Sara?” Dean repeated. “You found time to hook up?”

“With Sara? No,” Sam answered. “Just a friend.” When Dean chuckled, Sam laughed again and said, “Actually Ashmedai’s got the hots for her.”

“Ah,” Dean said and leaned forward to massage his leg. “Still wrecked. Be fine after second watch. There’s a rumour going ‘round that Ashmedai’s been up top chasing tail. That the one?”

“Probably. He claims he’ll take her when this is over. I promised—”

“Nah,” Dean said. “Not going to happen.”

“That’s what I promised her. That I’d make sure—”

“Not up to you, Sammy. Had a similar situation down here. A shapeshifter pretending to be a helpless victim, but something was wrong. Couldn’t put my finger on it for the longest time, except that she was the most annoying piece of work. But since she got eaten by Tanin,” his voice drifted off.

“Figure out what?”

“She said her mother had made a deal: her soul for ten more years of her brother’s life. But you can’t do that.”

“Do what?”

Dean turned to look at Sam. “You can’t make a bargain with someone else’s soul. That woman? Sara? You don’t own her. Only she can seal a bargain with her soul.”

Sam arched an eyebrow as a grin of satisfaction crept slowly across his face.

“Question is,” Dean asked, shifting his weight. “Why didn’t Ashmedai think about that? He’s pretty fucking cluey.”

“I think he’s too enamored with her. Besotted might be a better word.”

“Besotted? Huh,” Dean replied. “That hot?”

“I guess,” Sam answered, chuckling. “She’ll eat you for dinner, Dean. Forget it.”

Dean leaned forward and gingerly checked his leg again. “Bone’s fused. Still sore as shit, though.”

“What time do you make it?” Sam asked. “Timex doesn’t work down here.”

“About an hour before second watch. Why?”

Sam stood up and held out his hand to help Dean. “We need to get out of here. Come on.”

“Dude,” Dean said, but took the offered hand. Sam pulled him up and he tested his leg. He tched and shook his head. “Not gonna hold weight. Need another hour or more.”

“Nope,” Sam said. “We need to go now. If I have to, I’ll carry you.”

“Like that’s going to happen. I have some dignity left.”

“No, you don’t. Not after all I saw. Not a shred,” Sam said. “Which way to the gate with the lion?”

“Seriously?” Off Sam’s nod, Dean started toward the door. “Right, then. Provided we don’t get nabbed by some big ass who’s discovered you’ve screwed him out of his dream girl of the century, we go through the city center.”

“The round empty space?” Sam asked, following him.

“Yep,” Dean said, stopping at the threshold. He pointed straight ahead. Sam looked ahead in the greyish light of the pre-dawn and saw the center of the city, devoid of souls, a smattering of decrepit buildings arcing around it. Directly ahead of them, on the other side of the center, was a large gate. Atop the gate, a lion crouched under a roaring dragon.

“Let’s go home, Dean.”

  


~*~

  


“Holy Moses, that was some lightning strike,” Sara exclaimed. She turned away briefly from her self-appointed post at the door and took the cup of tea June offered. “Think it’s getting closer?”

“Any closer and it’d be directly on top of us. Nevertheless, very creepy,” June replied, hugging a paperback to her chest. “Any guesses as to what’s happening?” she whispered.

Another bolt of lightning ripped through the darkness; an explosive crackle followed after a few seconds. Both women jumped, then giggled nervously.

“I hope it’s almost over. Can’t believe I’m saying this but, I’d give anything to have this all done with and a distant memory.”

“I don’t doubt it.” June put her arm around Sara’s shoulders and gave her a gentle hug. “Look, I know what you’re thinking but Patti’s convinced everything will work out. And you know how she is. If she thought we were screwed, she’d tell us.”

“I know,” Sara said with a sigh. “But define ‘work out’, ‘cause from where I’m standing, you know as the trophy chick, it looks like wallowing in a steaming hot pile of crap.”

Lightning bisected the night sky again, illuminating the ghost town’s deserted, muddy pathways.

“Listen to this,” Patti said from across the room. “My friend lent me this book about the, uh, thing we put in the trunk. What was the name?”

“Sappara,” Sara answered, knowing the conversation was simply a ploy to distract her. “Egyptians called them khopesh, basically the same.”

“Sappara, right,” Patti repeated. “Anyway, says here that … wait, let me find it again … aha, ‘and no one is to know that he intends using this “Sword,” as therein are the mysteries of the Universe, and they are practised only in secret, and are not communicated—'“

“So that is why we could not tell Sam?” Pavel asked, looking up from the novel he was reading. “Your book is more appealing. This book is strange. Are you all sure this Fitzgerald is good?”

“Keep reading, Pavel. It gets better,” Patti said. “But back to your original question, I do indeed think so. Think of the damage it could do if we didn’t have to return it to its rightful owner.”

“Moses?” Sara asked, winking at June.

“He’s dead,” Enos said. “Don’t think he’s gonna come collecting.”

When a fork of lightning hit the crest of a hill in the distance, Sara spun away from the door and crossed her arms over her chest. “Not necessarily,” she argued, one eyebrow arched upward. “Josephus says he was sucked up into heaven alive, at the ripe old age of one-twenty.”

“Huh,” Enos replied. “Who in their right mind would want that?”

“Which?” Patti asked. “To live that long or be sucked up into heaven alive?”

Enos looked up toward the ceiling, then back down at Patti. “Either one. If angels are anything like demons, both options suck.”

The ceiling rattled, dislodging small chunks of plaster as thunder boomed above their heads. Sara and June shared a nervous laugh before turning back to watch the street outside.

“Oh,” June said quietly. “Ooohhh.”

“Enos,” Sara screamed. “Enos!”

Enos and Patti jumped out of their chairs and raced to the door. Pavel grabbed a Coleman lantern and joined them, gently pulling June away from the entrance.

Sara pointed into the darkness, toward the town’s main entrance. “There.”

“No chances,” Enos said as he returned inside the room. He had grabbed the black gym bag he’d stored under the card table and brought it back to the door. He caught one of the sawed off shotguns that had been leaning against the wall to the right of the door when Patti tossed it to him.

“Sara and June stay inside, wait for the signal,” Patti ordered, tossing the other shotgun to Pavel. “If anything comes in, draw them into the Devil's Trap. Anything.”

As the three of them stepped off the porch, another burst of lightning limned the main street. Patti ran ahead of Enos to the two men collapsed in the mud.

“Sam,” she said, noting that while Sam was breathing heavily, trembling from exertion and exhaustion, he held Dean tightly. Dean, who was terrifyingly still. “Sam,” she repeated, louder in order to be heard over the thunder.

Sam looked up just when Enos fell on his knees at his side. Pavel released the safety on his shotgun and stood guard over the group. Enos put two fingers on Dean’s jugular and nodded to Patti.

“Sam,” she said, bending down to look into his face. “Give Dean to me and let Enos look you over, son.”

“His leg,” Sam said, still breathless. “Didn’t have enough time for it to set properly.”

Enos looked down at Dean’s leg briefly, muttered a curse, then turned his attention back to Sam. “Holy shit, Sasquatch. What’d you do to your hands?”

“Sword, fire. I don’t heal in Hell.”

“Huh,” Enos said. “Looks like. Let Patti help you in, I’ll carry Dean.”

“No. I should—”

“Don’t argue,” Enos said and swiveled on his heels. “I can still whup your ass even if you do have funky powers.”

Sam nodded, exhaustion silencing any further discussion. “Everyone else okay?’

“All good,” Patti said with a grunt as she helped Sam up. “Glad to see both you boys.”

They waited, Pavel facing the electric fence into town, while Enos hoisted Dean into a fireman’s carry and gave the signal. Patti let out a sharp whistle and the front door to the building opened.

“Now!” Enos ordered.

  


~*~

  


Raphael stood atop the hill, watching the comings and goings in Cold Oak. He didn’t need the lightning to see. He knew Sam would be fine; his brother would also recover, at least physically. It was providence that the arrangement he had been allowed to make with Ashmedai included Dean’s revivification and nullification of the infernal contract. All that was left to do was to return the Sword of Moses to the legion’s Relics’ Master, and witness Ashmedai gyrate in anger when he realised that, like all the others before her, this Sara would not be his.

He watched as Patti helped Sam to his feet and Dean was lifted over Enos’s shoulders. A sharp whistle pierced the darkness and all five headed back into the white building.

Raphael smiled softly and heard, "Worked out well, eh?" whispered into his ear.

"Yes, it did," he answered. "What's the word on it, Gabriel?"

"It worked out well,” the archangel repeated. "That's the word. Pleasant how they came together to help."

"They're a resourceful bunch, this lot."

"Thank The Name, they are. They’ve made powerful enemies allying themselves with the boy-king. Ashmedai face reality yet?”

Raphael shook his head and chuckled. “I’ve tried to tell him time and time again. But he’s still living in the Chaldean Empire.”

Gabriel tched and said, “Some demons never learn. Get the Sword and report back.”

  


~*~

  


“Close the door, please, Pavel,” Patti requested, as Enos carried Dean past June and Sara toward the back of the building. She led Sam to one of the chairs in the reception area. “Sit here until Enos comes back out.”

“I have to go with Dean,” Sam argued.

“What’d I just say, son? Sit and stay put,” Patti said, with a hand firmly on Sam’s shoulder. She felt a violent shudder go through him when a clap of thunder shook the building.

Sam collapsed into a chair far too small for his frame. He glanced up to see Sara smile softly before she turned to follow Enos.

“I hate this place,” Sam whispered. “Cold Oak is pure evil.”

“We know,” Patti said. “We heard about what happened. Hey, June? Can you bring a bottle of water over?”

“Sure thing.”

Sam turned his hands over, reddening palms up, and surveyed the blisters beginning to appear. “How did you hear? Bobby?” he asked.

“No. Although remind me to call him after we leave.” Patti stepped aside to allow June to hand Sam an opened bottle. “The owner of the sappara told Enos, who told us.”

“Let Enos bandage those before they get worse,” June said. “They’re clearly second degree.”

“Yeah. Starting to really hurt,” Sam agreed. “I have to finish this with Ashmedai. Should do it with the sword.”

“We’ll ask. Told to return it as soon as you emerged with Dean.”

Sam carefully picked up the bottle with its green label: the same green as a highway exit sign. “By the way, did Ralph give you the message about my vision?”

“Ralph?” June repeated. “He’s in Rages. When’d you see him?”

Sam blinked in confusion and put the bottle down. “At the Gate. I came out of the vision and he was standing next to the car. Wait a minute, how’d he get there? Does he even drive?”

“Focus, Sam,” Patti interrupted. “What vision?”

“Had a vision the minute I arrived. There were some vampires. Near St. Louis. I thought I’d gotten them all but—”

“Right,” Enos announced, entering the room. “Dean’s settled. Braced the leg. It’ll have to be reset back home but let’s work on getting him up and moving first.”

“He’s okay?” Sam asked.

“Looks like. Steady heartbeat. Normal blood pressure. Deep sleep. Sara’s going to sit with him for a while.” He dragged a chair toward Sam. “Let me see the hands, kid.” When Sam held his hands out, palms up, Enos let out a long drawn out whistle. “Holy shit. Let’s get started on these. June, bring a couple bottles of room temp water and some soap. We’ll rinse these off. Patti, get me my kit, please?”

Patti brought Enos’s black bag and put it on his lap. “Vampires, Sam?”

“There were vampires in Hell? Swallow these antibiotics,” Enos ordered. “Then wash those hands...”

  


~*~

  


The dark enveloped him, swathed him in a warm, opaque greyness. He had no idea how long he’d been — or would be — stuck here. It was warm, but not smoldering. Moisture hung in the air but it felt refreshing, not like Na'amah's cave.

It wasn’t dark like Belial’s domain: occasionally a faint light would sweep across his eyelids.

It didn’t smell like the City: he was reminded of coffee, vanilla, oranges and flowers.

And the sounds. Muffled voices. Metal banging. Feet scuffling.

But he couldn’t move. Couldn’t open his eyes. Couldn’t see those things that were trying to torment him.

And his body shook, to the rhythm of Anakim marching into the City.

  


~*~

  


“Hello, Ashmedai,” Raphael said, his eyes firmly focussed on the star-studded sky.

“Mission accomplished?”

“You know the answer to that, so why ask?”

“Idle conversation while we wait for closure.”

Raphael turned around. “Your part in this is closed. Winchester is out of Hell, his brother made eternal enemies of your enemies, our balanced restored. There is nothing more to gain.”

“I have yet to claim my prize,” Ashmedai demanded. “That which is mine by virtue of the terms of the deal —”

“Your boy-king and his comrades begin their ascent while you ramble on, demon,” Raphael said in a tone halfway between a snarl and a chuckle. He nodded curtly toward the edge of the town where Sam, Patti and Enos had started to climb the large hill. Enos was explaining something to Sam who concentrated on maintaining his footing on the rocky ground. Sam nodded occasionally, and shifted the Sword from one bandaged hand to another as he walked. Patti climbed in silence, her face contorted in controlled anger. “I shall let him explain to you the futility of your chase,” he added.

Ashmedai turned on Raphael, green eyes sparking with fury. “What have you told him?”

“Me? I told him nothing. You, however, I have repeatedly warned.” Raphael turned to the group as they approached and smiled faintly. “Good morning, my friends. I see your task was successful, Sam.”

Leaving Enos and Patti a few paces behind, Sam stopped and finally looked up. Clasping the sappara in his left hand, his gaze swept from Ashmedai to Raphael. His brow wrinkled in confusion as he stared at Raphael.

“Where is Sara?” Ashmedai demanded, stepping forward. “You were to relinquish her to me when this was done.”

Sam clamped his jaw, steeled himself against the throbbing pain in his hands, against the exhaustion flowing through him in waves and glared at Ashmedai. He began the speech he'd prepared with Dean's information. 

“Sara is where she belongs.”

“She belongs to me. You made a deal.”

“No,” Sam said, his hand tightening around the hilt. “You made a deal that was neither valid nor unequivocal. You played upon my vulnerabilities and deceived me.”

“I liberated your brother —”

“By assassinating your competition,” Sam sneered. “Yes. I know about that. And about your mother, the mind-games in the CIty, the dragon hunts and the shapeshifter you sent to torture Dean. Visions, remember? You also set me up to be killed by Lilith’s son, who was taunted by that same shapeshifter. I achieved most of your objectives and I did those both with and despite your ‘help’.”

When Ashmedai remained silent, Sam shifted the sappara to his other hand, mentally preparing himself for its use after he delivered his final push. “I did those because I am the agent of my soul and my soul only. Sara’s soul is hers and hers alone. That part of our deal is void since I did not have the authorisation to negotiate on her behalf.”

“What are you saying?” Ashmedai said, leaning forward, his breath warm and dry in Sam’s face.

Raphael sighed and said, “What I’ve been saying for generations. Sara only goes with you when it is her choice.”

Ashmedai growled and spun around to face the angel. “I will have Sara.”

“Then you better work on your charm, demon. From what I’ve seen, you’re rusty. Be gone, Ashmedai. The aims you set have been achieved. You orchestrated Winchester’s escape, temporarily halting the Apocalypse. However, if you’re not careful, if you continue to follow the Winchesters in pursuit of Sara Benzohar, all this will be for naught and your part in it will come to light. Leave them alone and let your trail grow cold.”

“This is not over,” Ashmedai warned before he disappeared.

Sam turned to thank Raphael, but Raphael pre-empted him. “He has always had a penchant for melodramatics, but common sense will prevail. The torment that would ensue should his part in this become known will deter him.” He held out his hands. “The Sword of Moses, please.”

As Sam handed the sappara over, Raphael grabbed both Sam’s hands in his. “You did well, Sam. Very well. Your struggles are just beginning. Your own personal demons are gaining strength but they can be harnessed. Choose wisely the path you wish to follow and surround yourself with those who will support you.”

  


~*~

  


The battle was being fought again, in front of him but he was bound, unable to help his brother. Ormudz tossed fireballs around the room, throwing them in front of his face in an effort to catch Sam and set him alight.

Sam swung a sword, left and right, back and forth. Each serve was skillfully returned, but Dean could tell Sam was weakening with every swing.Time seemed to crawl as the fight dragged on. Dean tried to call out, to warn Sam but his voice caught in his throat.

A shushing sound breezed past his ears and a cold band fell across his head, just as Ormudz gathered a bright white orb in his hand. The ball hit Sam before he could swing in defense, engulfing him in a blinding fireball.

While Dean lay there, helpless, Sam rose from the fire and flew from view.

~*~

  


“Here ya go, Patti,” Enos said, entering the room and placing a cup of fresh coffee on the card table. “How’s he doin’?”

“Sleeping. Back to even breathing. Last nightmare was a doozy.”

“I field dressed the leg as best I could. Didn’t notice anything else wrong except a faded scar,” Enos assured her. “Once he’s recovered enough, we’ll take him out of Shit Hole and back to Rages. We’ll need to keep a close eye on him. I’m sure he’ll have PTSD.”

“That was something with Sam, eh?”

“Never saw anything like it, never want to see anything like it again, I can tell you that much.”

“You really think Ashmedai will back down? Leave Sara and the boys alone?”

“I think Raphael wouldn’t have said so if he wasn’t sure. Have faith.”

Patti checked the moist cloth on Dean’s forehead. Sara had placed one on his forehead during a particularly bad nightmare and it seemed to have calmed him down. Since it worked, they’d decided to keep refreshing them until he woke up. “He looks so innocent. More than he ever did, even as a kid,” Patti sighed, and then chuckled. “But wait until he gets an eyeful of June and Sara.”

Enos shook his head and put his hand on Patti’s head. He smoothed the hair she had recently scrunched in frustration. “You never know. He might have reformed his lecherous ways.”

Patti turned and looked up at Enos, her brow wrinkling in laughter and confusion. “You know what they say about panthers?” She jerked her head toward Dean. “They don’t change their spots.”

Enos burst into laughter. He kissed the top of Patti’s head then said, “Those are freckles, Patti, not spots.”

“Spots, freckles. What’s the dif?”

  


~*~

  


Dean heard voices as people went to find cover. He could hear the flapping of Tanin’s wings; the rhythmic swoosh as they moved through the air resounded in his ears. Slowly, as she approached from the distance. He looked around to see her shadow, to figure out from which direction she was coming, so he’d know which direction to run.

But for the first time since he’d been ordered to run across the desert, he couldn’t tell where she was. He could hear the air around him move faster and faster as she picked up speed, as she neared her prey.

If he’d been alive, he would have sworn that his heart was pounding in time with Tanin’s wings.

  


~*~

  


Enos sat down and scrubbed his face with his hands. Sam was asleep (aided by a little bit of something not quite over-the-counter), his hands miraculously healed by Raphael’s touch. The women were all asleep as well (he hoped), and Pavel was on guard. He had three hours of watching over Dean scheduled and then he could catch some shut-eye himself.

“Argh,” he groaned. “Better practice what I preach, right, kid?” He slapped his hands on his thighs and picked up the newspaper. “You got a lot of catching up to do, so let’s get straight to the important facts in the world today. May, right?” Enos thumbed through Friday’s _Pierre Capital Journal_ , stopped, snapped the paper then folded it in half.

“First, you gotta know that they started with instant replays in baseball. Just last month. Fuckin’ ‘bout time, right? Last week K-rod got his two hundredth save. Two hundred! Fuckin’ amazing. Football’s started up. Officially anyways.” He glanced at Dean then went back to the newspaper. “Says here that first week of the NFL got off okay. Oh, yeah, you should know, just so you got your stats, that the Giants beat the Redskins last week. Can’t stand neither of ‘em. NFL, lemme see… Brady got hurt and they say he’s gonna be out for the whole season. That’s gotta suck. Not sure which team you’re gonna root for but here’s the run down…”

“Where’s Sam?” Dean asked quietly.

“Next room,” Enos answered, folding the paper and placing it on the table next to Dean’s bed. “He better be asleep.”

“Why?”

“‘Cause I damn well drugged him. Only way to get Sasquatch to slow down.” He leaned forward, hand outstretched, palm up. “I’m Enos, by the way.” He watched as Dean inspected him, the room, himself. “You want some holy water or silver? We got bucket loads.”

Dean glanced at Enos, hand still outstretched. “I'm Dean,” he said.

“Yep, I know.” Enos withdrew his hand. “Been waiting for you, kid.”

“Waiting? Where are we?”

“Cold Oak,” Enos answered. “Sam brought you out.”

Dean looked at Enos again, then stilled. He could still hear the beat of Tanin’s wings in his ears, but it was slower than it had been. His body reverberated as if giants were marching nearby. Slowly, he put his hand to his chest. It wasn’t the approach of Anakim that shook him. He had a heartbeat again.

“It’s fine,” Enos told him. “You’re pretty much back to normal, except for the busted leg. It’ll hurt like a sonnuva when the painkillers wear off.”

Dean looked down at the blanket covering the lower half of his body. “Ormudz—”

“Hear he’s a right royal fucker.”

“Putting it mildly,” Dean said with the hint of a chuckle. “I need to see Sam.”

“Huh,” Enos replied. “Like I said. He damn well better be asleep. Which means it ain't gonna happen ‘til I haul your ass out of that bed or he hauls ass in here. So, you’ll wait. In the meantime—”

“Anybody playing New York.”

Enos erupted in laughter. “Oh, man. You and me are gonna get along just fine!”


	9. Author's notes

Author notes (not sure if they’ll help or not, but have them anyway, free of charge):

  


**Anakim:** literally “giants”, according to tradition, giant descendants of the Nefilim from Genesis 6.

  


**Ashmedai/Asmodeus** : originally a Zoroastrian demon, he migrated with the Jews upon their return from the Babylonian exile. And that’s where the similarities end. He’s not mentioned in Biblical texts, but appears in the apocryphal _Book of Tobit (Tobias)_ where he kills the seven grooms of a woman, Sarah, with whom he was enamoured. The angel Raphael helped Tobit’s son, Tobias, defeat Ashmedai and marry Sarah. Folklore has it that after King Solomon received the _shamir_ (a stone cutting worm) from Ashmedai, Ashmedai tricked Solomon and sent him wandering the world as a beggar while he took over as King of Israel. Legend also says that Ashmedai ascends into Heaven to study Scripture every other day, doesn’t tell lies, and knows the future of those he meets. Ashmedai’s green eyes here come from a Yiddish poem by S. An-ski, called (drum roll) “Ashmedai”.

  


**Belial** : means “without worth”, one of the demons of Hell, according to the Dead Sea Scrolls, whose kingdom in Hell is one of darkness.

  


**City of Lost Souls** : all mine but inspired by a book, _Angel of Darkness_ by Samuel Key (aka Charles deLint)

  


**Igrat** : together with Na’amah and Lilith, one of the four demon queens. Like Na’amah, she doesn’t get along with Lilith and their quarrels are “legendary”.

  


**Imamyah** : one of the demons who guides souls through Hell.

  


**Katsimon & Afrin**: shape-shifting demons.

  


**_Kfitsat ha-derekh:_** “the shortcut” — teleportation, according to Kabbalistic sources

  


**“ _Ki elef shanim ke-yom etmol be-eneykha”_** : Psalms 90:4 ‘For a thousand years are as a day gone by (a yesterday) in your eyes.’

  


**Kipod & **Kinor** : guardians of the gates to Sheol (Hell)**

  


**Lilith the Elder/Lilith the Younger:** Lilith is a post-Biblical addition to Jewish lore, most likely an Assyrian “migrant”, known mostly as a succubus, seducing men who were alone (she preferred highly educated men, by the way). In the Middle Ages, her popularity grew, her list of children she was allowed to kill grew and everybody was terrified of her, specially if you had a new-born. In the early Kabbalistic texts, there are two Liliths. Their partnerships are as in the story. They hate each other, and legend has it it’s partially because Samael is constantly attracted to the wrong one.

  


**Mashit** : a nasty demon who kills children and punishes souls in Hell.

  


**Na’amah** : According to late Jewish sources, Na’amah, a human, is the mother of Ashmedai (with Shamdon as his father). She is also known as one of the four demon queens.

  


**The Name:** traditionally Jews refrain from saying any of G-d’s names, generally using the phrase _haShem_ , “The Name”.

  


**Raphael** : the archangel who defeated Ashmedai in the _Book of Tobit (Tobias)_. Here he has sky-blue eyes only to contrast with Ashmedai’s green. Got nothing to do with other angels in the show’s canon.

  


**Rosecliff Mansion:** really does exist, it was the setting for the Gatsby mansion in the 1974 _Great Gatsby_ movie.

  


**_Sword of Moses_** : is actually a medieval, Aramaic book of magic. The excerpt Patti reads to Dean is from the translation of the book. There is some talk of a real sword of Moses, but that’s extrapolation of Biblical passages...

  


**Tanin** : “dragon”, Ashmedai is known to appear as one (or has one, depending on which source you read). However, so do Samael and Lilith, but theirs is known as _Tanin'iver_ (Blind dragon). He was their ‘groomsman’; you figure out the symbolism — Freud’s busy.


End file.
